Fugitive
by Lasgalendil
Summary: When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.
1. Chapter 1

_**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**_

**AN: Ernestina-verse. While reading Ernestina isn't at all necessary to understand this fic, readers of both might recognize several OC's and/or plot lines. ****Rated T for language, violence, and sexual references.**

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><p><strong>I am deeply interested in the progress and elevation of journalism, having spent my life in that profession, regarding it as a noble profession and one of unequaled importance for its influence upon the minds and morals of the people.<strong>** -****Joseph Pulitzer**

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><p>Liam Holden won Gotham's mayoral election by the proverbial landslide. Handsome, charismatic, none-to-young yet none-to-old, he radiated maturity and experience with a youthful, virile vigor. Conservative with money but liberal with ideas, the women and students loved him, and popularity polls projected his rise to a shining star not only in Gotham City's politics but perhaps nationwide as well. But by far the most important part of the vote, at least in Liam's eyes, was the working class.<p>

He won their vote as well.

Liam Holden, despite his riches and fame, was a self-made man. No old, East Coast blood for him. The newspapers called him a 'Man of the People', and the cry caught on quickly and spread until hardly line of print didn't equate that title to his name. In the span of 2 short years running for office, Holden had gone from a well respected if little known CEO to an instant celebrity. It was understanding, then, that Gotham Gazette and Gossip would begin to poke and pry, and begin to give him more coverage than even Thomas Wayne. Gotham's Old Blood were like Britain's Royalty, and never failed to offer print, but the average, every day citizen grew bored of their predictive antics-especially Thomas'. Charity was wonderful, of course, and who could blame Wayne for spending all his time at the hospital for low-income children, providing free public transit, and cleaning up Gotham's parks and schools? But the public simply yawned, and turned their channels to Hollywood and reality television for their entertainment fix in American Idol and other 'follow your dreams' sort of ilk. It was then that the newspaper editors learned that entertainment had become the new opiate of the masses…and flashy new, every day faces could woo their minds and their money even more than those already 'established' ever could. Liam Holden represented Gotham's Nouveau Riche, an everyday man who became something great, something admirable-and more importantly- something enviable. Ridiculously rich, married to a beautiful woman, taking interest in politics, with an adorable young son…he and his family were the perfect tabloid heroes, and began to be stalked relentlessly:

_Christopher Holden meets the Obama girls! Get the inside scoop on this political playdate!_

_Mrs. Holden wears Dior to Charity Benefit Ball_

_Gotham's Own!_

Unlike Thomas Wayne, Liam Holden didn't mind the limelight. He didn't relish it, either, but it was a necessary part of the role he played, and he and his family could play the part well, so play it they did. Pale and prude Martha Wayne would never have looked so good in front of the press, posing and preening, smiling endlessly and waving like a Hollywood starlet, but Mrs. Clarissa Holden put even sex symbol Marilyn Monroe to shame with her curvy hips and wide, salacious smile. No, the Wayne family was simply too uptight. They seemed to accept the press' presence, but never sought to draw attention. Besides, young Bruce was just so sour in comparison to Holden's vivacious, ruddy, and be-freckled darling. Christopher Holden had grown up in front of cameras, and wasn't afraid to smile or wave. 'The Truman Family', as one parenting magazine openly mocked, 'places their young child in the limelight and uses him for press and publicity. One can only speculate what sort of adolescent indulgences Gotham's populace will be forced to put up with when 'Gotham's Own' comes of age.'

But Liam Holden, PhD in Business and Computer Engineering, wanted only the best for his young son. Growing up in poverty, working his way from the streets through college and then to the head of a multi-million dollar technology industry Holden vowed his son would never have to suffer the way he did in anonymity and despair. "The best money can buy," Holden repeatedly said. "_My_ money. Well-earned." Young Christopher was taught and adored by private tutors, music instructors and coaches since the time he could walk. 'Only the best' was Holden's mantra, and one he adhered to with religious tenacity. Those who knew him best learned quickly not to question, and those who did question found themselves quickly estranged.

Yet despite these differences, Liam and Thomas still shared the same social circle-Gotham's elite and obscenely rich-making their meetings both inevitable and often. They spoke over champagne luncheons and philanthropic benefits, concerts and galas, yes; but they rarely _conversed._ Broad, sweeping toasts to health, happiness, and a better world for tomorrow comprised the greater half of their coexistence.

But one day they did converse. Or rather, Thomas spoke, and Liam actually listened. It was a public engagement, an educational address, and it the closest thing to a real conversation the two men ever shared. Thomas took the stand before thousands of parents, teachers, the necessary mix of minority and underprivileged children and the audacious press because he was the philanthropist whose donation made the smaller teacher/student ratio in the primary school system possible, and Liam was the politician whose job it was to show up at public functions of whatever import to establish the government's 'full support and cooperation', whatever that phrase might actually mean. But it was what the media had come to expect of him, and what the people had come to expect of the media, so he, Clarissa and even young Christopher fulfilled that obligation without complaint save mild ennui.

Wayne's address was abrupt and unexpected. "Private schools aren't good enough," He stated simply in his mild manner. "They're not good enough for my son to attend for thousands of dollars a year when he has access to a free educational system given as a federal right to children in this country. They're not good enough because they are a compromise. An admittance of failure with nothing done to rectify nor apologize, simply an admittance; and complicity with that admittance without action is both irresponsible and cowardice. And I for one will not be called a coward. There is simply no excuse I or any other parent can offer for accepting anything less than the best from the school systems that tax-payers well-earned money is being used to support. Where that system has failed it is the fault of irresponsible parents, and irresponsible school districts that do not accept public accountability. This is unacceptable. This cannot continue. The welfare of America's children and the future of this country's science and industrial sectors has been jeopardized. We must all do what is necessary. We must all do what is right. If money is the issue, then our government needs to supply the funding not from property taxes but an equilateral source. Our citizens must be willing to pay higher premiums for higher quality. If teaching staff is the issue, then we must re-evaluate, and make necessary changes not based on tenure or affirmative action but ability. Whatever the price, whatever the sacrifice, we must all be willing to make it. Because we can no longer be complicit. We can no longer by compliant. We can no longer sit idly by and either ignore or accept this mounting burden and the toil it has placed upon our youth."

Thomas sat to no ovation, and only scattered, scarce applause, in which young Christopher-to his father's good credit-politely participated. This man, this one man, Liam realized, was powerful. His simple speech left a room of Gotham's movers and shakers, shapers of public opinion and policy, utterly dumbfounded. A simple 'thank you' would have sufficed. A 'celebration of greater collaboration' would have been appreciated. But _criticism_? Open criticism in front of live press, well, that was another matter. It came as little wonder, then, that Wayne had never sought to be a politician. Compromise was the necessity-the sacrifice for the greater good-that kept America's public policy running.

At that time Liam only listened. Didn't comprehend, didn't act, simply heard and began to ponder. Raising taxes certainly wasn't a popular choice, and the re-distribution of wealth across school districts was a matter of federal, not local politics, and one that had the GOP screaming socialism-the equivalent of career suicide. Yes, he heard Thomas Wayne, but as a politician many other voices had his ear as well, and as the months went by time between family, business, and the ever-increasing expectations of the uneasy populace kept Wayne's words and idealism from his fullest attention.

Then something happened in Gotham City. Something that made even the Titans like Liam stop in their tracks and tremble. On the day that Thomas Wayne died, it was as if Atlas had shrugged, and the whole world teetered on the edge of the brink. And if she should fall, what then?

On 'the day that Gotham wept', Liam Holden finally found his reply to Wayne's great words. But he feared, as most did, that whatever should come next for Gotham City would be far too little, and far too late.


	2. The Night that Gotham Wept

_**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**_

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><p>America came to know it as The Day that Gotham Wept…but that was after, after the newspapers the next morning, after the broadcasts across the television and the sad, sad ceremonies marking Thomas and Martha Wayne's internment. To those in Gotham, who lived through the tragedy, who watched their hero fall, to them, it would always and ever be the night that She was weeping.<p>

…Wept implies past tense; and the sorrow his city felt was never wholly gone.

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><p><strong>Gotham City, Palisades<strong>

**Residence of Mayor Liam Holden**

Christopher Holden was only seven the night Thomas Wayne died. Much too young to understand. It was a public function, his nanny whispered quickly, he had to get dressed, and so tousled and sleepy he woke and donned his finest black suit. Even in the dark his tiny fingers could knot the tie, and within five minutes he appeared fully dressed with shoes shining brightly, and with the nanny's weepy approval continued to flit in and out of sleep on the soft white couch in the hall But even at his age he was exceptionally bright and even woken suddenly he was keenly aware of the adults' emotions. Nanny was sad, and father was angry. That much was clear from his belting, baritone voice wafting up from the hall-

"Liam, I don't understand," mother pleaded. "It doesn't make any sense-"

"Sir, this could be your opportunity-" the slick, oily voice of his father's advisor Hamilton Hill crooned lowly. Chris shut his eyes. He never liked that man. He was too…smiley. Yes, that was the word. Too smiley. Always smiling, but the smile never seemed happy, never reached his eyes. Nanny didn't like that man either, he knew, but mother did. He wished the man would just go away.

"Who do you think I am, man?" father thundered. Chris sat up and shivered-he'd never heard father so angry. "Thomas Wayne is dead. Dead, do you hear me? And I WILL NOT be so underhanded to use this uncertainty to my advantage."

The name meant nothing. Dead meant nothing. Aside from a grandmother who'd passed when he was 3, Christopher Holden had never dealt with, never seen, never tasted death. He was a pampered, sleepy, seven-year old boy who dreamt of airplanes and race cars, chocolate cupcakes and ice cream cones. He had no idea that across town, another little boy not much older than he sat awake, dressed up in an uncomfortable suit, wishing he too could be back home and in bed, and that when he woke up again everything would be back to normal. That little boy's name was Bruce Wayne.

They wouldn't meet for another 13 years.

"Sir, the people will expect some sort of public address-" Maybe they wouldn't go, he wondered dreamily, nestling back into the cushions. Maybe he could put his pajamas on and go back to bed. Or maybe he would just sleep in the suit, go back to bed with his shoes still on, wouldn't that be silly…he was sleepy, still so sleepy, and he just didn't want to go…

"Then let the police handle it. Let them do their jobs, and let the killer be caught."

"Sir, every one is expecting you to make an appearance-"

"And regardless of how respectful that appearance my intentions will be misread and self-serving. I am a _Man of the People_, Hamilton. A man of the people. And tonight I join them." But Christopher knew that tone. Had heard that phrase before. And even though he'd never had intensive grammar, his young mind knew that in this case, I meant _we_, and we meant _him_. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and let nanny carry him sleepily to the waiting car.

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><p><em>Tonight is different<em>, Christopher thought to himself. Father drove. He had never seen father drive before, and it was scary and exciting all at once. There were no cameras, either. No bright flashes that made you see funny, floating spots before your eyes. And there were people, lots of people. People were all over the streets, the sidewalks. They were dressed funny-still in their pajamas!-but none of them seemed funny at all to his child's eyes. They were sad. All the people were very sad, and Christopher Holden was too young to know why.

But he was young enough to be curious and polite enough to be courteous. Father often let him speak out of turn, and so he did. "Why are they sad?"

Mother blinked when he spoke. She often did that. But this time was different, and she just kept looking. Looking and looking and looking without answering as though he were invisible. He tried again. "Why are they so sad?"

"Who is sad?" mother finally asked.

"Well, everyone," he thought aloud. "Nanny is sad, the people are sad. I think you're sad, too."

"Don't be silly," she chided, turning his face from the windows. "No one is sad. They're all very tired." Christopher was too young to suspect that his parents might be lying to him. Too young to know why they might, but the night that Thomas Wayne died was the night that Christopher realized that they did, and had.

She said they were tired. They were all just so very tired…but glancing up in the rearview mirror from his mother's overbearing embrace, he caught a glimpse of his father's face.

He was weeping.

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><p><strong>Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy<strong>

The sad people were tired. The sad people's children were tired, too. And everywhere across the great, green lawn the people were lighting candles and putting flowers down beside the fountain. There was an angel in the fountain, Christopher saw, and he pulled his mother's hand forward to take a closer look. Angels were nice, his nanny said. His grandmother went to be an angel, and she looked down from heaven at him. He thought maybe the angel knew his grandmother. He thought maybe the angel in the fountain would be glad to see him-but he was wrong. The angel was sad. There was a crack in its face under its eyes, and water from the fountain was dripping, dripping sadly down. The angel, like all the people, like nanny, like father, was crying.

Then Christopher cried. He cried into his father's pants leg until it was slick with snot and tears, then his father picked him up and he cried into his shoulder and his throat became sick and sore. He didn't know why, but the angel was sad, and it made him sad, too.

Christopher woke up. He was stiff. Uncomfortable. His neck was craned in his father's shoulder, and it was sore. He stretched, yawned, and nestled closer. It was still dark. The people were all still here. Some were sleeping, some were still lighting candles. Some were singing.

But the soldier by the fountain wasn't singing. The soldier was crying. The soldier was crying with the angel, too. And Christopher was crying for the angel and for the soldier, because no one was here to make them better. No daddies, no mommies, just the people and the singing and the candles and flowers. Lots of flowers. But there were signs, too. And a big picture someone put by the fountain, a picture of a man and two words: Thomas Wayne.

Thomas Wayne. That was the name his father said. Father said Thomas Wayne was dead. Christopher didn't know what dead meant, but he thought he understood. Dead was something very, very sad. So sad that even angels and soldiers and all the people in their pajamas cried.

But the blonde ballerina didn't cry. She smiled. She smiled at the soldier and then walked slowly over all the sleeping and singing people on her tippy-toes and held his hand. Ballerinas must be sad, too, he thought, because the ballerina made the soldier cry even more than the angel did. They sat down on the edge of the fountain and the soldier cried, and cried, and cried into her hair, but the ballerina didn't mind. She kissed the soldier on his forehead, and Christopher didn't think she was sad at all. In fact, he thought she was the most beautiful person in the whole entire world.

He wouldn't meet her either. At least not yet. Not until the very day-the very moment, in fact-that he met Bruce Wayne, and for seven long, anxious years, they would be two of the last four people to have seen him alive.

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><p>Christopher didn't go back to sleep. He watched the people sleeping or crying, listened to them talk in hushed, whispered voices. He squinted his eyes at the candle flames until they made funny lines and twinkles and his eyes hurt and he had to stop. But mostly Christopher watched the ballerina as she laughed and smiled. Now the soldier was laughing and smiling too. He thought the ballerina was pretty-so did the soldier.<p>

He began to pout. He didn't want to watch the ballerina and the solider anymore. Didn't want to be here by the fountain and the sad angel and hear all the sad songs.

But the people were all waiting. Waiting for what, he wondered. Maybe they were waiting for that man. Maybe all the people were waiting for Thomas Wayne to come back. They all wanted him to stop being dead.

Christopher Holden was only seven. He was sleepy and uncomfortable, jealous of the soldier who got to hold hands with the pretty ballerina, and he was also getting very, very thirsty. He hoped Thomas Wayne would come back soon.

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><p>Thomas Wayne must've come back, he thought, because the people were so happy. They were crying, but they were happy and hugging. "They found him!" They shouted. "They found him!" Mother and father were crying. Father placed him up on his shoulders and spun round and around and around. The people were blowing out candles, laughing and jumping and shouting-they weren't so sad anymore, and Christopher Holden yelled with them all and cheered and chanted "They found him, they found him, they found him!" until his throat hurt with happiness and his voice was gone. Then the solider picked the ballerina up by her tiny waist and spun her around in the fountain and then he kissed her and kissed her and he kept on kissing her and Christopher was so excited he forgot to be jealous or make his yucky face. People cheered and clapped and whooped and the ballerina blushed but she kissed him back and then everyone was kissing and hugging and they started cheering and chanting and crying all over again. The soldier was happy, the ballerina was happy, mother was happy, father was happy and all the people in their funny pajamas were happy. Everyone was happy, so happy, and Christopher was happy too.<p>

Father carried him back to the car. The sun was rising, but he was going to go back to sleep. He was so tired, he was so very happy. Everyone and everything was all right, and that was very good. As he nestled into his mother and drifted off into a deep, contented sleep, Christopher Holden hoped the people wouldn't ever lose their Thomas Wayne again.


	3. A Continued Conversation

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

****AN: In Batman Begins, Ra's al Ghul mentions that Gotham banded together after Thomas' death, and I tried to allude to that line when writing about Liam Holden.****

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><p><strong>Gotham City<strong>

13.6 miles-roughly half the distance between Athens and Marathon. It was also the distance between North Street Public High School and the Gotham City (historical) courthouse building, if one was creative with the route. The full course of the Marathon proper stretched some 26.2 miles total, weaving back and forth across the a map of historic Gotham, for those runners who entered out of tourism, academic, or athletic interest, but the full course was also a long way to ask the average citizens of any city, American or not, to get out on a Saturday morning and run.

So they compromised. To fight obesity, to encourage academic leaning, to foster the tourism industry that brought jobs, visitors, immigrants, and enrichment of culture to this grand populace, Mayor Liam Holden, the Gotham Knights, and the GCPSC asked for anyone and everyone who had paid taxes towards, or ever attended a local school to come out and support and/or participate in Gotham's next greatest fundraiser for education: the commencement of the annual Gotham City (Mini-) Marathon.

Chris Holden was 17, three weeks from graduating from North Street public high school, and had grown up from being "Gotham's Own" chubby little celebrity child to a lean, athletic, and confident young man. He opened the ceremony with his aging father, then they both changed into track suits to join the gathered throng of over 12,000 entrants for the two runs. The sun was hot, the wind was cool, and he couldn't remember such a feeling of happiness, hope, and comraderie since that night as a young boy when Thomas Wayne's killer been brought to justice. How silly it seemed now, childish and immature, to have thought that it was Wayne's return that had made the people so happy. And how petty that boyish jealousy over that blonde ballerina, although ten years later he still found blondes-and ballerinas-to be quite attractive…

When the pistol sounded, he took off running like the rest of them. They weren't in it to win it, they were here to show support, to do something as father and son, but you always took off fast at the beginning of a race on a matter of principle. You gave the crowd something to cheer for, to be excited over, and then you slowed your dash to a more reasonable pace and saved your sprint up for the end. And this race was no different than any other, save the crowd was larger than any cross-country meet he'd ever run at, even nationals.

Balloons, confetti, cheerleading squads and the pep bands from every local school district serenaded them along the first several miles. But finally the cheering bystanders thinned, so they slowed to a jog, surrounded now mostly by a sweating pack of athletic women or men around his father's age. He couldn't bring himself to think of them as 'elderly', not yet. His father was 67-older than most men with children his age-but still as young and vigorous as ever.

"College," Liam stated once they'd crossed the eight mile marker. But in 17 years Chris Holden had come to realize that statements, when addressed to him, were always questions. And generally the shorter the statement, the more pressing the question…

"I've given it some thought," Chris sighed. "Mother wants me to go to Princeton."

"A respectable institution." His father conceded.

"I'd get a good education there, I suppose. But I've also been accepted to Georgetown and Brown."

"I see. All three quite acceptable," Liam puffed. "And which are you considering?"

There was no point in delaying the answer any more. It was May, and in three short months his intentions would become perfectly clear to both parents. But not today, Chris decided. Today was a day when his father was proud of all his accomplishments as a politician, a businessman and a philantropist. It just wouldn't do to make him disappointed as father. Not now. Not _yet_. So Chris sighed. "All of them."

But Liam surprised him."Ah. I see. None of them."

"What?" he yelped.

"None of them. You claim to be deliberating between the three, but the truth is you have no real desire or intention of attending either."

There was a moment of panic, replaced quickly by flabbergasted relief. "Yeah. I just-how did you know?" he asked shyly.

"You've been skirting the issue for months, my boy, which is most unlike you." His father confessed gruffly. "But my question stands: College. Will you be attending?"

"Yeah," Chris nodded. "I'll, I'l go. I just-I don't want to go to those schools, you know? The last 12 years I've gone to state schools, public schools, and those have always been good enough. You've made it a point that they should always be good enough…and so I've been thinking why should my college be any different? GSU's got some great programs-"

"I couldn't agree more. However, college is much more than simply an education," Liam continued as they ran. "It is also a time and a place to build partnerships, establish connections-"

"I want to be a journalist." Chris blurted, so suddenly it surprised even him. "Not a politician, not a businessman, just a journalist. I want to write articles and say stuff on TV. I want to make people listen."

They jogged on. For several hundred paces his father was silent, but then with a slight nod he acquiesced. "I see."

But that tone was enigmatic at best, and Chris didn't know what to think of it. Unlike many of his peers with absent or overbearing parents, he had the utmost respect for his father, and still craved his approval and affection. More than anything. Maybe it was all those years as a young child vying for his father's attention from his monetary and political affairs. Maybe it was because his father's actions spoke where his terse words didn't, and regardless of how many times his father's love and pride had been shown, deep down inside Chris still craved the words. "You're not mad?" he finally asked.

Liam seemed shocked."Mad at who? And whatever for?"

"Me," his son confessed in the mid-morning heat, red-faced from running and the sunburn eating away at his fair skin. "For 'wasting my potential'."

"And do you think you'll be wasting your potential?"

"Well, no-"

"Then why should I be mad?"

"Mother thinks—and all my instructors think-"

"What they do is expect, Christopher. They expect that since you are my son, you'll be like me."

"I want to be like you, dad, just-"

"Just what?"

"Just not…_like _you. I want to do things for Gotham. Good things. Big things…but I want to do them my way."

Liam nodded. "I see no reason why you shouldn't."

"So you're not…disappointed?"

"Disappointed in what?"

"In me. For choosing GSU. For wanting to be a journalist."

"Good heavens, no, boy! Have you listened to a word I've said?" The Mayor stopped cold. "Christopher, you're my son, and I'll support you in every decision you make so long as you're convinced in your own mind that it is right. You couldn't disappoint me by being a journalist unless you were sloppy, ill-informed, under-researched, and opinionated. Is it your intention in your future career to be any of these things?"

Chris laughed. "My utmost."

"You leave your mother and your instructors to me. You take care of yourself. And remember this: Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it and, above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light."

Chris Holden blinked, awed. "Who said that?"

"I just did," His father cuffed his shoulder gently. "Joseph Pulitzer. Good man. Good journalist. And if you seek to do just that, regardless of income, regardless of fame, regardless of your mother or any one else's opinion, you'll be damn fine man. And _that _is something I will always be proud of."

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><p>Those were some of the last words Liam Holden ever spoke. Just 200 short meters of the finish line, the Mayor collapsed before the sight of all of Gotham and within seconds died in his startled son's arms. For those watching at home, the confused and anxious face of 'Gotham's Own' was their last glimpse at the tragedy: GCN yanked live coverage and cut to an emergency commercial break. It was a sign of their greatest respect for such a great man not to show Gotham's most shocking and tragic news since the murder of Thomas Wayne. The studio producers watched helpless as EMT's responded, looked on proudly as one of their own reporters-young and promising Mike Engel-pulled the adolescent away from the scene and shouted to all reporters to turn their cameras off, to take the mikes away when more than a hundred were vying for that crucial comment.<p>

Engel hadn't been thinking of his career when he responded, just the needs of that young man. But that concern got him noticed, and getting noticed got him promoted. What had undoubtedly been the worst moment of his life had also been his finest, and Mike Engel-like Liam Holden-could always be proud of that.

Later that night, Gotham County Coroner Nora Fields confirmed for the city what responding EMT's Jennifer Hansen and Ben Jacobi had already suspected while administering CPR: acute myocardial infarction. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Liam Holden, Gotham's 'Man of the People', rising from rags to riches and celebrity, Gotham's most trusted politician, philantropist, father, husband, and friend left the city's streets as a young man to become something more, only to die on them 48 years later.

…Perhaps-as many thought-it was only fitting.

Holden's funeral was a state ceremony, with all the pomp and circumstance necessary to honor his achievements. But he wasn't buried in South Side Cemetery as was custom. His son Christopher made an unusual request, one that Liam would have heartily approved: his remains were interred on GSPSC property so that in his death-like his life-he might continue to show support for the education and enrichment of not only his own child, but all of Gotham's children.

That conversation, started by Thomas Wayne so long ago, had finally been completed. But good conversations-like ideas-are never fully finished. They are passed down through time, handed down generation to generation, and always the truly good and great men must speak their part. There was another Holden, another Wayne, and the task would fall to them to uphold their father's names.

Christopher Holden. Bruce Wayne. Two men, two Gothamites, two legacies to carry on.

One would become a hero and a legend, a Good Man, an inspiration to the masses for generations to come. The other lurked in the shadows cast by camera-light, and by history was quickly forgotten. But Bats have been—and remain—creatures of the darkness. Only those with no sins to hide can ever live fully in the there are lines that good men will not and cannot cross without passing into the realm of those Great...or Terrible.


	4. A Career Begun

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

**AN: Sorry for the abrupt change in updates, tone and quality. I'm trying to get back to my fic Ernestina, but this behemoth of a plot bunny has set up a writer's block strike until I get it all churned out!**

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><p><strong>Gotham County Courthouse<strong>

Chill's parole hearing. He'd already meant to go. He'd been young-very young-when Thomas Wayne had been murdered, but it was the most vivid memory of his childhood he still had. He'd always heard adults talking about 9/11, remembering where they were, what they were doing when the first heard or saw the news…and although there were no planes, no terrorists, and no explosions, Thomas Wayne's death was his 9/11. The day-or rather night-that he and Gotham would always remember.

But now it wasn't just personal. It was news. And regardless of how he felt- remembering the jubilation of the mourning crowds when Chill had been caught, and now the smouldering anger on his potential release-it was an Event. An Event that had to be reported, and to be reported objectively it had to be experienced objectively. He had made up his mind to go, but that childhood memory kept coming back, haunting his dreams, and with Wayne's death, also his father's.

Mike Engel made it easier. They'd kept in contact, and Engel had been quick to take him under his wing. "GCN's got me covering. Alright, I lied. I _asked_ GCN to let me cover."

"You're going to be in the court room?" Chris perked up with interest. "Right there inside the court room?"

"Yep. I figured you could tag along if you wanted. Take some pointers," Engel winked. "You up for that?"

The day came. Cold, dreary, and wet. The courtroom wasn't much cheerier, with armed guards at every entrance, low lighting, and the wear and dirt of centuries of crime and guilt laid heavily on every stained surface. The seats were uncomfortable and wooden, reminding Chris of the pews of the old, stuffy churches he'd been forced to attend on occasions as a child. Christmas and Easter, his father had always said, were in the public eye more holidays of cultural tradition than religious matters. As a politician representing a multi-cultural populace, it wouldn't have done to affirm any religious affiliations, so instead they bounced from cathedral to cathedral, denomination to denomination and mass to mass so long as the church buildings themselves were of architectural or historical value. The judge wasn't much better than any of those priests, either, with a dry and droll voice that could make even the deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne into nothing save long-suffering boredom. But regardless of the dryness, Chris never once got bored. It meant too much-the court, the law system, the objectivity-for any man of great mind to see as insignificant.

He took the time to look at-really look at-the court room and the people inside it. That's what Engel had brought him here for, to observe, so observe he did. Who were these people who came to watch this trial? Friends of the Wayne's? Business partners? Family? Other reporters? There were perhaps only a few dozen, that was all. Why were they here, and why hadn't more shown up in support? But the truth was it had been 13 years, Chris realized with a jolt, 13 years since Thomas and Martha Wayne had died, and Gotham's populace, like her heart, had simply moved on. The Wayne's death was something of the past, and Gotham's proud eyes looked only to her future, failing though it was.

Joe Chill's appearance and testimony were what surprised him most. The man had always been something of a monster to his generation, an evil, twisted creature of the night that had brought down Gotham's most beloved. Killed a man and a woman in front of their child. Took their lives simply for money. A thug, a crook, and a miserable low-life incapable of remorse, redemption, or regret.

But the contrite man that stood before them today was anything but, and nothing Engel could have said to warn him would have taken the edge off that shock. "What I did was wrong, Your Honor," the slight, sorrowful man confessed. "And not a day goes by that I don't wish I could take it back."

It took nearly a minute for those words—and that tone— to sink fully in: Joe Chill was actually _sorry_.

"I believe a member of the Wayne family is present today." The young man rose, rose with a hollow, hardened eyes and glared at the judge and the murderer alike. Chill's eyes were lowered, humbled, and he never once raised them to meet the young man's gaze. But Bruce Wayne, the same small child whose testimony sent Joe Chill to prison 13 years ago, had nothing left to say.

Chill was guilty. The verdict still stood. And nothing he could ever do could hope to assuage that hurt.

It couldn't be, Chris decided with Wayne's retreating back. It was impossible. A lie. A mistake. Perjury. No, he wouldn't _let_ it be true, it would ruin all his childhood memories, his fear, his hatred and his anger towards this murdering son of a bitch…but objectivity had to come in somewhere, and regardless of his feelings, his memories, his personal beliefs…objectively observing Chill's confession, his hang-dog mannerisms, and his humility, the man was sorry. Repentant, even. And with that realization Christopher Holden stopped simply wanting to be a journalist, and became one.


	5. An Unwitting Witness

When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.

* * *

><p><strong>Gotham City Courthouse<strong>

"So how was it?" Engel asked once they were outside. "Not what you were expecting, huh?"

"I thought it'd be a bit more glamorous, to be honest. I guess I've just watched too much TV."

Engel laughed and whistled. "Chill on parole. Damn. Never thought I'd see the day this city let the Wayne's killer loose."

"I don't understand," Chris confessed. "Why? I mean, of all the criminals to let loose, why _him_?"

"Haven't you been keeping up with the news, Chris? Chill's the only man in a dozen years who's been willing to stand up against Carmide Falconi."

"That supposed mob boss-"

"There's no supposed about it, Chris," Engel informed him.

Chris shrugged. In the last hour he may have become a journalist, but he was still young, naïve, and had much to learn about the world of crime. "They've never found any evidence of his involvement-"

"It's always like that with the big bosses if they're worth their salt. No one ever proved Al Capone was a gangster, either, but everyone knew he was. Evidence isn't the real problem. The problem is they haven't found is anyone willing to testify against him," Engel corrected lightly. "Yet."

"And Chill can do that?"

"That was part of the agreement. Trade Chill for Falconi. They shared a cell in Blackgate, and it turns out Falconi's got a hard time keeping his mouth shut."

But he was puzzled. "If they've never got any evidence on Falconi, how's it that he spent time in jail?"

"Contempt," a low voice growled behind him. The two reporters spun around. There was a man-no, a woman, Chris realized after a moment of scrutiny- a tall, well-muscled woman with a bleached-blonde crew cut standing hidden in the shadows. "Contempt of court," she continued. "for an investigation on tax evasion. Bastard skipped out, got a bounty posted."

Engel laughed. "So that's how they got him! Carmide Falconi, murderer, drug dealer, philanderer…and they got him on contempt of court charges. Damn!" He shook his head in humorless disgust. "Ain't that a rip off."

"At least he went to jail for a bit." Chris added timidly, desperate to be a part of what felt like a very serious conversation. The gravity of the moment made this feel like a grown-up talk, the kind his father used to have right over his head with important men as a child as he looked on politely. Chris felt invisible, ignored even, and he didn't like it.

"Yeah, well, for criminals like Falconi, jail ain't good enough for 'em. Bars don't stop men like him from committing crime. Even while he was in there was still money-laundering, gambling, extortion, prostitution-" Engel continued, but that menacing woman cut him off.

"Preaching to the choir, brother," she hissed. "Now if you'll excuse me-" she shouldered between them roughly, and butted her way into the gathered throng of reporters. Any second now Joe Chill would exit the courthouse by those doors, and take his first step of freedom in thirteen long years years…

"Alright, let's go back to 101." Engel said quickly, still watching their mystery guest, the back of her mannish head visible over the crowd. "A journalist has to be observant. Nosy, even. You see that over there?"

And sure enough, Engel was right. There was a man standing down the corridor, a little ways back, hidden amongst the shadows, and that domineering woman was bearing down on him. "That's Bruce Wayne, right?" Chris tried desperately to keep up.

"Yeah. And what does that tell us?" the reporter coaxed.

"I, I don't know."

"It tells us he stuck around. Didn't speak during the trial but he's still got something to say. Maybe to us, maybe just to Chill. But either way it's a good story: Wayne Heir Confronts Parent's Killer," as Engel spoke his hands moved as though spanning a headline. "I'm stuck waiting here for Chill-network's orders-so you go ahead," his mentor encouraged. "See if you can't get Wayne to talk."

Chris edged over slowly, taking time to compose his thoughts and questions. It was strange-wasn't it?-that their fathers had known each other, that his father had spoken so highly of Wayne's, that Wayne Manor and the Holden Estate were not ten miles distant, and that for several years they had attended the same elementary school, maybe even had some of the very same teachers until Wayne had been expelled for fighting. Thomas Wayne's greatest irony was his son, who despite all his father did and said for the educational system had ended up graduating from a privately funded institution and attending Princeton college…because at age 12 GCPSC had had enough of his disruptive, self-entitled behavior and he'd been expelled from the system permanently. They might've had a life together. Played on the same sports teams, same band. Perhaps in another life they could've even been _friends._ What did you say-what could you say, Chris wondered, to someone like that-?

"Wayne!" a familiar voice called. "Your father's killer just got released from prison. Any words for the press?"

"Yeah. Go to Hell," the angry young man bristled. "And no comment." All Chris' hopes of a headline were dashed in less than a moment. This interfering busy-body with no sense of decency or respect had cost him a story. But she wasn't finished, and Chris stood by, shocked, at what came from her mouth next.

"Don't fuck with me, pretty-boy," she sneered, brazenly edging closer until she and the billionaire stood face to face. "If you don't have anything to say what the Hell are you doing here?"

"No comment." Wayne stated again.

It wasn't polite, but it certainly was an opportunity that might never come again, so Chris joined in. "Mr. Wayne, sir, I'm a journalism student at GSU and I-"

"No comment," Wayne growled, still trying to catch a glimpse of that crowded doorway over the woman's tall frame. She, for her part, did her best to stay not only in his way but directly in his face. Chris could feel Wayne's frustration mounting by the minute.

Sudden jeering. Hisses and boos. The click-click-click of hundred paparazzi cameras. For this moment, just this moment, all the world's eyes were turned not to Thomas Wayne's surviving heir but to his killer-turned-celebrity Joe Chill. Even Chris-much to his chagrin- instinctively found himself turning his back from his target just to get a better look-

Wayne surged forward. Knocked Chris off balance from behind. In perhaps the third most important moment of his short life, Christopher Holden found himself juggling his note pad and pen, and struggling just to stay afoot when that woman's iron grip roughly righted him. "Th-thanks," Chris stammered. But she didn't let go…and her outstretched arm again thwarted Wayne's path.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Wayne snarled. She'd finally cracked his shell, Chris saw, and raw anger was seeping through.

"The truth," she stated evenly, all the while her eyes flashing and her forgotten grip crushing his arm. "You're selfish, self-entitled prince and you have no idea what Carmide Falconi's guilty verdict might mean to this city, do you?"

Wayne's next words were like ice, and only then did Chris Holden begin to grow alarmed. He'd gotten tangled up in something big. Something nasty…and for the first time in his adult life he knew fear. There was something wrong. Off. Dangerous. His heart began to beat in earnest. He had to warn her. Get her away. She might think it was all in the line of journalistic duty but she didn't know anything about men. Testosterone. Chris could smell it subconsciously, had seen in before in locker rooms after meets and out on the field but there'd always been a teacher or a coach or a referee to break it up. There was no one like that here. No one but him. And this woman, whoever she was, was in grave and immediate danger of getting the living shit beaten out of her.

"Ma'am?" he squeaked. "You really-" Wayne took a step closer, and Chris held his breath—and his tongue. Now they stood nearly eye to eye, and Thomas' son stared down his nose at her with an utter and blind contempt. "That man killed my parents."

To Chris' surprise, her answer was soft. Sad. "Sometimes you've got to allow a little evil for the greater good, kid."

"Who the hell do you think you are," Wayne whispered dangerously.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but whatever retort she had died on her lips. No sooner had the security detail parted to let him pass, no sooner had Chill been enveloped by that angry swarm of reporters than a voice rang out higher and shriller than all the rest: _Falconi says hi!_

**BANG. **

Panic. He didn't see it so much as _hearditfeltitlivedit!_ as the echoes reverberated off the stone walls and floor, as shouts and sobs and screams rang out, pandemonium ensued, and in the running and falling and cowering for their lives all the reporters and all the cops and all the witnesses there that day missed what Chris Holden saw. Standing shell-shocked and rigid, not inches from Thomas' son, he didn't see the murder or the murderer. Didn't see the gun or moment Chill was gunned down. But what he did see was that in the moment that his parent's murderer was killed, Bruce Wayne didn't so much as even _flinch_.

He was simply Silent. Frozen. Cold.

"Are you satisfied,"Wayne finally said to the woman. "This city let my parent's killer walk free and it didn't make a damn bit of a difference. So much for the 'greater good.'"

The woman was quiet for a long, long time, but her eyes never once left his retreating figure. Chris found he too was locked in the intensity of that hypnotic trance, and scarcely able to breathe. Then Wayne was gone, and that woman let out a long, shuddering sigh and he found himself gasping for air lest he drown in the enormity of it all. Joe Chill. Joe Chill was just shot dead on the courthouse steps. Joe Chill was dead. He died on the courthouse steps. Joe Chill, a man was dead, a man was dead a man died right in front of him he died _rightfuckinginfrontof him…_

That numbing grip on his arm relented, and Chris Holden found himself swaying, had to reach for the support of a columnade to steady himself, feeling simultaneously both relieved and ashamed. Of course there had never been any danger. Not to him. Or anyone else. That shot-that shooter-had been meant for Chill and Chill alone. His vision came trickling slowly back. Sound ebbed slowly, then shattered this haze back into reality.

He was ashamed for being afraid. Relieved for being alive. And guilty, yes, guilty, of standing in the presence of the still-warm shell of a man's uncovered corpse and thinking of nothing but himself…

And little comfort it was that in this sea of people surrounding him there was not one person who didn't do the same. So much for intellectualism. So much for objectivity. So much for the superior power of journalism.

They cuffed Chill's killer. Mike Engel stood with all the rest, blocking the Police Escort, clamoring for answers to the question that all already knew. Who are you. Who sent you. Why'd you do it, Ma'am? Someone just died…Joe Chill, Thomas Wayne's killer, had just died, was still lying there uncovered on the courthouse steps and already it was old news.

The world was sick, Chris realized. The world was sick, he repeated. The world was sick…and then he retched.

It was only then as he fought for control that he noticed that she was still there beside him, standing silent as a statue. But she was shaking, he noticed, feeling braver, shaking just like him…no, not like him. He remembered that grip, that cold, heartless stare, and realized she had been shaking-shaking not in fright but in barely masked rage-shaking this entire time. Even before the gunfire or Wayne's cheap parting shot she had been wrestling with a deep-seated wrath that even now threatened to ignite. He watched timidly as she wrest it under control, her ragged breathing becoming more regular until she scarcely seemed to breathe at all and the deathlike paleness leaving her face to be replaced by splotches of pink and the dark shadows of bruises…and suddenly it was over. She shrugged once, licked her teeth, and again opened those lidless, lifeless, hooded eyes.

"Who are you?" Chris asked, overcome with curiosity and a little touch of awe.

"Who wants to know?" She returned with undisguised disgust.

"I'm Chris Holden," he began again awkwardly. "I'm a journalism student-"

"No one," she spat tersely. "I'm no one. Got that?"

"Off the record?" He attempted with what little humor-and courage-he could muster.

She stared at him for nearly a minute before responding, "Just the fucking bounty hunter that brought Falconi in."

He would learn later that Falconi's contempt charge only reaped a $5,000 bounty, that Falconi had continued his every day life, his every day business, without a care in the world. He would learn that judges, cops, and city councilmen alike all knew and spent time in Falconi's whereabouts for months while that BOLO stood, and that only one person-one woman-in a city of millions had the gall to stand up and bring him in. That's when Christopher Holden would learn how corruption leached its power from the craven, and why good men cowered in its path. Everyone had something or someone to lose, someone too precious to sacrifice for the supposed 'Greater Good'.

…Everyone, that is, but someone with nothing else left to live for.

But he didn't know it. Yet. For now, he knew her solely as the bounty hunter, and in that moment-in his small, errant view of the world-it seemingly explained everything. Why she had come. Why she had stayed. Chris' mind was churning faster than it had ever churned before, because there was still something off. Still something wrong-

Finally it came to him. "You thought someone would shoot Chill, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah I did."

"I, I just don't understand. If you knew what Falconi's trial means to this city, and you knew someone would get to the courthouse to try and kill Chill-"

"There a question in this, journalism-boy?"

"What I meant to ask is…well, if you knew someone was going to kill Chill, why didn't you try to stop them?"

She laughed. It was black, bitter, and utterly bleak, and he found himself wishing he'd never hear anything like that sound again. It was hollow. Hopeless. Deathless and resigned. "Why didn't I fucking _try to stop them_?" She repeated nastily, those steely eyes now boring into his. Her next words stung. "Journalism student my ass. You've still got as much to learn about Gotham as that Wayne-brat does."

He didn't know her. Her words and opinion meant nothing…so why did he suddenly feel so ashamed? Chris Holden couldn't remember feeling so foolish, so much like a stupid, misunderstanding child outted for the adult world to see since the moment growing up when he'd realized in retrospect that it had been finding Chill, not Thomas Wayne, that had set that crowd to a dizzying frenzy.

"And for 'off the record', Mr. Holden," she called brazenly over her retreating shoulder. "I didn't just try. I _did_."

He'd wondered about those words. Lost sleep, tossed and turned all night worrying and pondering. But the morning-like she often does-brought sudden clarity, if not peace of mind:

**WAYNE HEIR MISSING!**

_Eye witness testimony placed the missing Billionaire outside the Mob boss' club just moments before his disappearance. Carmide Falconi has been listed as a person of interest in both Chill's death and Wayne's disappearance and was called into Police headquarters for questioning early this morning. __But with the testimony the only man who could ever hope to place him in permanently in prison now forever silenced, Gotham's public has little hope that either of these newest tragedies will ever come to justice._

It was simple, really. So simple now he couldn't believe he hadn't solved the riddle the moment he'd seen it. Wayne didn't speak up in court because he had nothing to say. Wayne had no comment because Wayne wasn't there to _say_ anything to anyone.

Where one gun could be smuggled in, another could as well. That whole time, closeted in the courtroom for all those long, tedious hours, waiting silently in that dark hall, Bruce Wayne had _meant_ to kill Joe Chill.

…and he would have, too. He just never got the chance.


	6. An Investigation Ensues

**An Investigation Ensues**

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>The week of Wayne's disappearance left him in a dazed blur. Over the next seven days the police interviewed him at least a hundred times. Sometimes at his home. Sometimes at his school. Sometimes they caught him in the hallways during passing periods, but mostly they dragged him out of class in front of his peers and friends. At least ten times they dragged him down to interrogation and let him stew for several hours. But their questions remained the same: Who was he, they wanted to know. Why was he talking to Wayne. What did Wayne say. Had he hurt Wayne. Had he killed Wayne. How long had he worked for Falconi. When did he meet Falconi. Why had Falconi ordered Wayne's hit, and over and over again: who's your freaky friend?<p>

But Chris Holden wasn't your every-day sort of man. His father might have been 'A Man of the People', but he'd been rich, too. Chris got tired of persecution. Got tired of brutality and investigative techniques bordering coercion and constitutional rights infringement. Thirteen days after Bruce Wayne's shocking disappearance, Christopher Holden finally hired a lawyer, and found his police problems suddenly went away.

He wrote a piece on Wayne's disappearance, and with Engel's help he got it published. Just in the school newspaper, of course, but it was a start. Engel even offered to grant him an interview on GCN seeing as he was one of the last three known people to have spoken to Wayne alive, but Chris declined.

"Yeah, nerves." Engel had said. "It's okay. Getting up in front of the camera your first time can make anyone a little shy."

Christopher Holden, 'Gotham's Own', was anything but camera-shy. He'd grown up in front of them, and found their presence now to be bothersome at worst, invisible at best. He just didn't want to get up in front of cameras before millions of people and do what his father had warned him against: being biased and ill-informed. You couldn't just accuse a mob boss of murder. You had to _prove_ it first.

Chill killed the Waynes. Falconi killed Chill. Bruce Wayne wanted to kill someone in rage for his parent's death…and Carmide Falconi was the next logical choice. Good God, he thought staring up at the ceiling one night, if it ever came out, if it ever went to court, if he ever said anything to anyone about knowing Wayne's intentions…Carmide Falconi might walk. He could be called to testify, and Falconi could claim it was all in self-defense.

…Perhaps it even was.

* * *

><p>He was a journalist, and he had to tell the truth. But first he had to <em>find<em> the truth. He started his own investigation using public records and any police files he could get his hands on…and it was surprisingly and pervertedly simple. For the right price, anything could be found in Gotham City. You just needed to know who to ask.

Arnold Flass, for starters. For five hundred dollars Chris got photocopies of confidential police reports on the Wayne case, only to find them sloppily and half-heartedly written. The cops didn't care. And the ones that did…well, they cared for good reasons. When you were working for Falcone, it didn't do well to finger the boss.

That's when Chris discovered the criminal suspect trifecta: motive, means, and opportunity. You had to have all to catch your perp…it also meant that given one, you had to investigate the other two. That's how the police chose their suspects.

…and in Gotham, it was often how they beat them into a confession. In order for the mob boss to walk free-or to get the media off their backs-the GCPD needed a boogey-man. A scape-goat. Someone who could convincingly fit the profile and who'd be convicted by a bought jury in a corrupt court. And the longer the Wayne investigation went on, the more they felt the pressure to close on someone, anyone. _Good God_, Chris thought, _it's like the ending of Farenheit 451…_

He had to do his own investigating. Had to get to the bottom of this-even if it killed him.

The Wayne case began to sap all his time. He spent his free nights and weekends not at the clubs with his classmates but holed up in the campus library, poring over illegally obtained files, going over the suspect list again and again and again: Alfred Pennyworth, William Earle, Rachel Dawes, Homeless John Doe, and finally at the bottom of the list, as though merely an after-thought, mob boss Carmide Falconi whose 'alleged' contact with the victim was merely 'unsubstantiated' and even then, 'circumstantial.'

Alfred Pennyworth had been the Wayne's butler, security guard, and upon their death had become the legal guardian to their son. In Bruce's disappearance, he'd become their sole heir. But the man was already in his sixties, and it would take seven years to have Bruce declared dead in absentia. Why murder him and risk dying before the fortune was his? No, Holden decided, Pennyworth would've placed the body someplace it'd be found. He'd had the trifecta, yes, but it just didn't fit.

The same with William Earle and that board of directors. Wayne Enterprises might've found themselves thrust into the international limelight, but they had no real monetary gains. Even absent Bruce Wayne was still the CEO, and the firm was privately owned and operated by Thomas' trust fund…and until his heir was declared legally dead they couldn't take the company public. No stocks, no shares, no real net profit. Not for seven years…and that was a Hell of a long-term perspective for any company in this economy, even WE.

And Rachel Dawes? Dawes was barely out of her teens. Small, slight, and soft-spoken. Arguably the last person to have seen Wayne alive, but she just didn't fit the profile-she was a female with a college education, long time family friend and with possible romantic connections to the victim. After her first interview with law officials she hadn't even been considered a person of interest.

Then there was that lunatic, John Doe. That homeless man. Police rooting around the Narrows had found him wearing Wayne's tailored leather jacket, and locked him up. The guy confessed to the whole thing, even said he'd dumped Wayne's body in the river…and for nearly a month the Coast Guard and the Police dragged every inch of those muddied waters with no luck, all the while providing some homeless man with three hots and a cot on state money. It just didn't make sense, Chris had thought. Homeless guy like that would've taken the wallet. Spent the money. Tried to use the ATM card…but no such hits were ever found. It had been a waste of time and money, and while the police had wasted time with their self-admitting boogey-man the real trail grew stone cold.

They charged the unnamed homeless man with obstruction of justice, and he spent another six months warm, well-fed, and with free health care in the county jail. And, barring evidence of any crime, upon his release he was returned all his belongings: 30 yards of balled up fishing line, a moth-eaten wool cap, two shoes with card-board soles, a set of rusty car keys, a tube of chap stick, two lighters, and a coat that had once belonged to Bruce Wayne. "It was a gift," the homeless man had repeated over and over again, his only statement in seven months that had ever had any semblance of truth to it. There were some who thought perhaps Falconi had paid the man off as a distraction, but Engel only shook his head. "Homeless guy like that? He might not have a high school diploma but he didn't need some mob boss to get smart. He just needed a warm place to sleep and good food through the winter, and when the GCPD hauled his ass in for questioning he figured he'd like to stay. Falconi didn't hire him-but hell, it probably made that bastard's day."

The only person missing from the equation was Falconi himself. '_Eye witness testimony placed the missing Billionaire outside the Mob boss' club just moments before his disappearance._' Chris needed the truth. He needed that witness, and for that he needed the journalist's source.

The journalist who, incidentally, had skipped town and left no forwarding address after a vicious home-break in and sexual assault. The GCPD had labeled it a burglary gone wrong. Mike Engel had called it bullshit.

There was a wall. Everywhere he went, every lead he investigated, it ended in a wall of corruption or cowardice…the Wayne investigation, all these months later, still ended in a blind alley beside a Mobster's hangout somewhere in the Narrows. He needed that witness now more than ever-so he'd have to find them on his own.

The day after Wayne's disappearance people were called into questioning. Every reporter, every member of the audience of Chill's trial had been dragged to the presinct headquarters and grilled for hours on end-including himself-everyone but _one_: that unnamed bounty-hunter. And if she had nothing to say to the cops, and had the brains and street smarts to evade them, she sure as Hell didn't go talking to the press…and so simple logic and the process of elimination (and the help of Arnold Flass) ruled it down. It wasn't him, it wasn't the homeless man, and it certainly wasn't the bounty hunter…and that left just one other person: Rachel Dawes. She became his second source. Young, talented, a good (and quite pretty) head on her small shoulders, and always cooperative. From what the police files had reported, she'd been so from the get-go.

"No one wants to find Bruce Wayne more than me," she said over a late afternoon lunch. "He's out there somewhere. I want to bring him home."

He'd never said a word to her about Wayne's intentions. The reports said the two had been 'childhood friends', but Chris suspected a little more. And it just didn't do to tell someone's girlfriend that their lover was a raging, homicidal maniac and that's what got him killed. "Don't you think you're being a little too optimistic?" Chris asked lightly. "I know he was your friend and all, but it's time to face the truth, Miss Dawes. Bruce Wayne's been missing for nearly a nine months now. He's not gone, he's dead."

She stiffened, and for all her smallness she certainly had balls (or _spunk_, as Holden would officially label it in his Pulitzer-winning report), and her stubborn faith confirmed his suspicions about her and Wayne's relationship. "You don't know that. No one knows that. If you ask me, I think the police are being narrow-minded in excluding any option before all avenues of inquiry have been investigated."

For all her seriousness he had to smile at that-she sounded like a goddamn lawyer already. "But we all know who did it, and we all know why he's not been brought to justice. Carmide Falconi runs the GCPD-"

"Don't." Rachel blanched.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say that. Not out loud and certainly not in print. I won't accept that because I don't believe Bruce is dead," she said lowly, "but more importantly, I won't ever, ever say that until I have hard evidence to prove it. Without evidence, you're dead."

"Dead?" Holden asked skeptically. Journalist or not, he still had much to learn.

"Mr. Holden, Carmide Falconi just ordered a man hit on the steps of the court house in front of a hundred eye-witnesses. If that doesn't scare you, you're either stupid or courageous, but either way it'll get you killed. If you have questions, ask them. If you want evidence, find it. But don't you go don't you _ever_ go to the police in this city. Better yet, move." She said soberly. "It might already be too late."

…She was right.


	7. The Roman Strikes Back

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>Chris Holden was in over his head. It took less than three days for word to leak out some journalism student might be taking his 'investigative journalism' course a little too serious-like. One morning he woke up to find his car had been stolen, chopped, and the pieces re-sold to thirty different vendors across Gotham City-all with some suspected ties to Carmide Falconi. Not a week went by before his girlfriend at the time, Lucy Shillings, kicked him out of her bed, her house, and her life when the answering machine started picking up midnight calls, deep breathing, and crude sexual suggestions. Professors who had once held him in high esteem found no time for him or his work so his grades began to plummet, and the editors of the Gotham U Gazette where he had once ran a daily column began returning his submissions unopened. The week after, the IRS began an audit into his mother's finances, and all the family accounts were frozen.<p>

Clarissa called him from Cuba. "It's not safe there, mom," he argued. "For goodness' sakes everyone who's anyone knows that place is filled with fraud and tax evasion! Do you have any idea how corrupt those people are?"

"No better than where you're staying," She sniffed from somewhere in the Caribbean. "Don't worry about me, dear. It's you I'm concerned about. This is a tourist resort. It might be corrupt, but at least they value the privacy of their clientele…and they don't extradite," she added darkly. "I'm safer here than where you are. Someone's gunning for you, Chrissy, and I won't let them use me to get to you."

"Mom, I'm in _college_, for heaven's sake. Don't call me Chrissy."

"And I'm now a fugitive from the mob and the federal government," Clarissa Holden remarked drily. "Don't call me at all. Love you."

Son of a former Mayor or not, child celebrity or not, ridiculously rich or not, when that receiver touched down Chris Holden found himself utterly alone. Of all his former friends and family, only Mike Engel kept in contact, and then only via cryptic phone calls and the internet.

**_mengelGCN. net_**

**_to __HoldenCr67GSU. edu_**

**_subject: Company Christmas Party_**

_Taking a look at the program you sent me. Thank you, very impressive and festive. Everything seems in order. I'm going to add Santa Claus is coming to town-I think you know the song? "He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake, he knows when you've been bad or good so be good for goodness' sake" or something like that. Remember, the party is a surprise. You shouldn't tell anyone else or word might get out. _

_Take care. Be good—Santa's watching! _

_Mike_

_PS: bring a date_

Cryptic messages, all in code. Santa was Falconi, that much was obvious, and Engel was advising him to drop the investigation based on what he'd shared, and not to tell anyone else, aka the Police. Dawes had said the same thing…could she the date Engel was referring to?


	8. The Warning

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>Limelight Café. Public place, lots of witnesses. Also, great sandwiches and there was nothing suspicious about a young couple meeting there to share a meal and a conversation. Dawes was already there when he arrived, hiding coyly under a wide-brimmed hat, a silk neck scarf and large framed dark glasses. The costumed look must've been to throw off Falconi's hounds, but still it <em>stunned.<em>

And maybe, just maybe, that part of him that highly resented his new-found and rather forced celibacy hoped that some bit of that dress, make-up, and heels had really been meant for him. "Wow," Chris grinned sheepishly as he sat down. "I thought I was meeting a law student, not Audrey Hepburn."

A smile crept over her small lips-even in potential danger a woman couldn't help but love a compliment. "This isn't a Bond movie, Mr. Holden. It's real life, and it's starting to scare the shit out of me."

She was small, delicate, and wearing a very, very classy vintage print dress. The damsel-in-distress instinct was just too much to resist, and he felt the overwhelming urge to comfort her. "It'll pass."

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. Holden," she continued conversationally as the oblivious waitress poured ice-cold sweet tea into twin glass tumblers. "They're watching you. Watching your every move."

"Yeah," Chris conceded. "My friend, Mike, he keeps in contact via email, but they're getting weirder and weirder."

"How so?" She asked, brows knit in concern.

"His last email-after I told him I figured out it was you the paper was quoting-was about a Christmas party program that I didn't put together for him. He suggested adding 'Santa Claus is coming to town'," he snorted. "Do the math."

She blanched. She tried to hide it under a sudden interest in the menu but he caught the look. "What?"

"Did you mention my name?" Dawes finally asked. "Did you specifically mention my name in an email?"

He had to think, long and hard, and in his silence the waitress interrupted again and took their orders: one phillysteak and cheese with homemade fries, and one tuna salad with a side of cottage cheese. "No," he finally decided. "I sent the whole file in the mail."

Her small-yet very shapely, he couldn't help but noticing-breasts rose and fell in a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you're finally taking this seriously." Which stung, of course, to hear while surreptitiously staring at her tiny figure, and for a long while he couldn't bring himself to reply. Ambient chatter, the scraping and clattering of silverware, and soft, live jazz wafting over from the far corner of the restaurant filled the next few awkward minutes. It was nice being out. Out of the house, out of school, out of work, nice to be going out, being normal, just having a meal with a beautiful woman on a Friday night…

This Wayne case had taken a lot from him, and suddenly he wanted to be selfish. Wanted it all back. He just wanted a life, for God's sakes, just wanted a lover…and now this intelligent and extremely attractive young woman sat across from him, and their sole connection was her grim determinedness to see this through.

…Damn.

Chris Holden had never felt so disgusted with himself his whole life. Rachel Dawes, whatever else she might be, was a much better person than he. She deserved better than this. "I didn't really believe you, you know," he finally admitted. "But my profs started flunking me…and I guess subconsciously I must've known if they were in the system once, they could be anywhere," he shrugged. "God, I wasn't even thinking about, about you-"

She forced a small smile. "Thank goodness your subconscious is smarter than you, Mr. Holden. But it's not just me, it's anyone you know. Anyone you love. Falconi…Falconi's not above using them to get to you." She choked up a bit, but as he reached across to place a comforting hand on her tiny wrist-_wrist,_ he reminded himself firmly, avoiding her well-sculpted thigh-the waitress returned with their food. They spent the next few minutes eating in awkward silence.

_Anyone you love. Falconi's not above using them to get to you_, Dawes had said. But she'd also said she didn't believe Wayne to be dead, and that was a conflicting message. If it wasn't Wayne she was referring to-

"I loved him, you know." She blurted. "Bruce. I loved him." There went that theory, and with it, that vestige of hope. It was going to be another Friday night alone. Again.

"I thought you thought he was still alive," Chris reminded gently.

She sniffed, removed those mirrored lenses and wiped tears and mascara from streaming brown eyes with her napkin. "I do," she whispered. "And that's what hurts most. Why would he do this to me?"

He leaned forward, and this time got to place a hand on her arm, but the romance was passed. It just wasn't…polite? sporting? fair? to put the moves on girl who was crying over a former boyfriend, not to mention the emotional baggage you'd have to be willing to put up with, either. That hand was completely platonic, and she must've felt it, too, because Rachel's slender fingers relaxed, then suddenly squeezed back.

* * *

><p>Good things never lasted. His fun-yet-platonic evening crashed to a halt on arriving home. Spray-painted in dangerous, dripping red across the cedar wood door-frame was a one worded warning: RUN.<p>

…when the waitress had brought the bill, he'd gallantly taken Rachel's check and paid for both their meals. He'd thought it'd only been a joke-the receipt she'd finally let him pry from her fingers with a clever, intriguing smile had born the hastily scrawled inscription: DON'T GO HOME.

The Caspian was a well-secured if shabby motel on the opposite side of town, well within the Russian crime front territory. There was no possible way, Chris thought as he flitted off to sleep on scratchy, off-white sheets, that Falconi could reach him here…

He slept through the night. He woke, yawned, and stretched when the morning sun's beams crept through his window, then stumbled to the bathroom to pee. In what was probably the most undignified moment of his life he opened the crotch of his underwear with one hand, wiped the sleep still clinging to his lashes with the other and blinked, only to let out a squeal like a frightened girl and splash hot urine all over the tile, the toilet, and himself.

But pissing all over himself and the hotel floor was nothing compared to the fear in front of him: someone had written GET OUT in lipstick on his mirror. It was only then, jolted awake by sheer adrenaline that he remembered he'd gone to sleep with the window shut, and the curtains completely drawn.

Someone had slunk in while he was sleeping…and then crept out the fire escape. In the time it took to change his pants, Christopher Holden, 'Gotham's Own', found himself doing that exact same thing.

_This isn't a Bond movie, Mr. Holden,_ Rachel's words echoed in his pounding head_, it's real life, and it's starting to scare the shit out of me. _


	9. Underbelly

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>Chris went to the Narrows, withdrew all the cash Engel had put in his ATM account, plunged the bills into his pocket then placed his entire wallet in the outstretched hat of a homeless 'War Veteran' candidly smoking pot on a street corner. "God bles' you!" The man called after him wildly. "<em>God bles' America!"<em>

Not two blocks later he stumbled across an outdoor Salvation Army clothing sale, where he picked out the least ratty pair of sweats and a hooded shirt. He changed in a makeshift tent dressing room then donated the suit to charity. _Follow me now, Falconi_, he thought, disappearing into the Narrows mid-morning crowd of the homeless, hecklers, and hookers, unwittingly following the footsteps of another young man who had disappeared here not eleven months before.

* * *

><p><strong>Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy<strong>

He supposed it was only natural to have ended up here, here at the Fountain where it'd all began. Fourteen years ago, he'd stood here with his father and mother as all the adults in Gotham mourned. Since then he'd lost his father, for all intents now lost his mother as well, and he longed for the simplicity of his childhood. Thomas Wayne had died, and it had turned his parent's life upside down. Now Bruce Wayne had disappeared, and Chris found himself running-and hiding-for his.

The food pantry provided him with hot meals, twice a day, and the field around the fountain and that weeping Angel was both cool and shaded during the day and sheltered enough to sleep in during the nights. He felt useless, helpless, and very lonely. After his fourth day on the lawn, both bored and jumpy lest Falconi appear, the Sisters had asked him if he'd like to help in the kitchens, and he'd said yes.

Oatmeal, thin soups, watery juices and week old bread. The church did what it could to find food, working with local charities but not the United Way (due to the Vatican's stance on abortion and contraception, he learned from the nuns and priests, who, not content with their own vows of celebacy, seemed to delight in forcing it upon everyone else as well, Chris mused moodily) to provide meals to the poor, the homeless, and to several dozen foster children in the direct care of the Church. The kids seemed well cared for, fed, washed, and sheltered, but there was no doubt from their pinched faces and faded uniforms that this was a harsh and grim place to grow up.

The lights in the foster home slowly began to wink out one by one, and Chris returned to his patch of grass to sleep to be pleasantly surprised. Someone had left an old sleeping bag and a lumpy pillow beside his suitcase. He thought it must be a gift from the Sisters, but on laying down heard a crinkling noise from the pillow. He fished between the seams to find a crumpled piece of paper barely legible in the dim light: THEY ARE COMING.

Chris ran. He took the pillow, the sleeping bag, and his suitcase and ran as far as he could. He ended up on the Old Narrows Bridge, panting and worn, at 2:05 am, trudging wearily through the midnight traffic. To him the Church had meant sanctuary, and even though Meroni wouldn't begin his money laundering scheme through these walls for another year, Chris should have known better than to hide from the Italian family in the shelter of one of the oldest, most venerable Catholic establishments in North America.

Yesterday, he'd finally been settling in. Finally felt useful for the first time in weeks, had promised a freckle-faced foster girl named Maggie Kyle that he'd help her with her homework, and play basketball with her and her mild-mannered friend Jimmy Connolly. Carmide Falconi had taken his home, his family, his girlfriend, and now his _word_ as well.

…he was really, really starting to hate that man.

* * *

><p>He hadn't spoken to Mike Engel in weeks. Hadn't contacted Dawes, either. At first he had moved, every night, from homeless shelter to homeless shelter, then alleyway to alleyway as he learned Falconi had spies even in the lowliest, most grimy places in Gotham. It was odd-he'd always thought of the mafia as white collar crime, but the truth was Falconi wasn't above scraping a few cents anywhere he could get it. Even the pushcart peddlers selling hotdogs and many of the pimps weren't entirely 'independent businessmen'. The underworld of Gotham had a hierarchy, had boundary lines and frontiers and charters and constitutions, and the laws of the Jungle, Chris found, were much more respected and obeyed then the Law of the Land. No one cared about getting caught by the Police-you could bribe or blackmail your way out of almost anything in Gotham City, but no one ever crossed one of Falconi's loan sharks and got away with it.<p>

With much jeering, mugging, roughing and several instances at the hands of young hoods with knives and toughened veteran crooks with tire irons that he had been afraid for his life, Chris learned the lay of the land. He settled in the Hermandad sector, a tiny Spanish neighborhood like an island in the middle of Falconi's territory. This Puerto Rican gang, the Latin Kings-_los Reyes Latinos_-was brutal and ugly, and Falconi had let them sprout up here more in indifference and oversight than anything else. It was a poor sector filled with illegals and white trash, where even the junkies and the hookers had a hard time getting any. It was Falconi's blind spot, and for fifty dollars a week he holed up in some Abuelita's garage, feeling safe and at home for the first time in months.

…he only wished she'd do something about the rats.


	10. A Coerced Confession

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>"I can't believe you're still alive," Rachel Dawes related in a hushed whisper, three months later. "When I filed that missing persons report I thought they'd gotten you for sure."<p>

They didn't have much time-it had been a nearly chance meeting at best. Lately Chris had been frequenting the subways near the courthouse in the vain hopes of catching sight of her-and today he'd finally got his chance.

"It won't do for you to get seen now," Rachel breathed as the oncoming train rattled closer and closer to the stop, the harsh squeal of its brakes now filling the terminal. "I'm sure I'm being followed as well. Where can I find you?"

He'd thought about that-and had come prepared. It was an old sandwich wrapper he'd picked up from the street with his address etched crudely into the dull foil. She could open it, memorize it, then shove it into the first waste bin she saw and Falconi would never be the wiser for it; and if either of them had happened to drop it, they'd simply blend in with the million or so other litterers in Gotham City.

She smiled grimly, yet playfully as she turned and boarded her car. "See you tonight."

"Be careful!" Chris called as the doors hissed shut. Within seconds the train was hurtling down the tracks again, taking with it the only person in Gotham he could still call friend. He just hoped she wouldn't get killed for her trouble.

* * *

><p>"It's not as classy as last time, but it'll do," Chris said with a wink. Dawes had treated him to Subway, the nearest-the only-restaurant for blocks that wasn't full to the brim with hoods of all races, sizes and ages. And that was only because the subshop was just a front for the cocaine-people would get suspicious if a long line of druggies stumbled to and from an abandoned building. But if you watched closely enough, you'd see it. All the nervous, sweaty, jumpy, filthy people bought sunchips...and the cash they handed over was considerably more than for a simple five dollar footlong. "But you're still crazy for coming down here alone."<p>

"And you're crazy for living here. I can't believe you've been hiding here all this time and no one's ratted you."

"They're ex-paroles or illegals, mostly," Chris shrugged. "They don't want anybody-not even Falconi-dicking around their neighborhood. They're pretty tight-lipped to begin with, and you add the Latin Kings on top of that and you've got utter silence. No one in this barrio is saying _nada_." The Latin Kings were now infamous for grisly knifings and muggings, sometimes even in broad daylight. Each hit grew more daring, more bold and more violent as this newly planted syndicate struggled to make a name for itself and its warring would-be kingpins on the streets.

"I'm sorry I've put you through all this-" she began, but Chris waved her off.

"Look, I went to Chill's trial before I even met you, Rachel. I was already interested in all this stuff and resolved to try to figure it out before we ever met," he said kindly. "So don't flatter yourself by saying it was your pretty face."

She laughed. "Charmer."

"And besides, I'm getting great street experience. When all this is done, I'm going to write one sweet-ass book about Gotham's underbelly from the perspective of the homeless," he winked. "Pulitzer, here I come!"

"Well, if your award is all you care about, I'll have to take that sandwich back, Mr. Holden," she said, straight-faced. "I'm not sure this cuisine is authentic enough for your journalistic experience."

They shared a few silent chuckles and continued small talk. "You seeing anyone?" Chris asked.

She shrugged. "I don't really have time…a-and Bruce-"

"Yeah," Chris grunted. "Bruce."

"What about you?" Rachel asked with all the dignity she could muster.

"Oh, you know, being homeless and unemployed has its advantages. You KNOW it's true that girl's don't date guys just for their money when even hookers turn you down-" _Dignity be damned_, Chris thought, as Rachel Katherine Dawes snorted Sprite out her nose.

* * *

><p>They began meeting more often, slowly growing bolder. After five months under the radar, perhaps Falconi, like everyone else in Gotham, had simply assumed that Mr. Christopher Holden would NOT be returning, thank you very much, and had deigned to leave a forwarding address with his secretary.<p>

"Have you found anything new?" Dawes asked. She was dressed up-to Chris' chagrin and eternal delight-like a hooker to blend in on the streets. It was just cover, but _damn_, Chris thought. She had soft, shapely legs neither long nor short, and those thigh-high boots and that mini-skirt showed them off beautifully.

"Nice boots, by the way." He commented as he walked up beside her.

"Left-over from a high school Halloween party," she said. "Thanks."

"Wish I'd been there for that."

"No, you don't." Rachel assured him, with such a tone as to make it credible.

"What'd you go as? A dominatrix?"

She sighed. "You want the long version or the short version?"

Chris grinned. "Do you even have to ask?"

She settled down on the curb, legs splayed deliciously in front of her. "I bought these because I wanted to make Bruce notice me. I was his best friend, sure, but it was like he never even noticed I was female. I thought I'd make him jealous."

"Girls," Chris lamented. "Continue."

"Well, Todd Evans was team quarterback, and about the biggest jerk/jock you've ever met. He was such a creep-you could button your collar past your eyebrows and the guy would still be staring at your boobs. He was my chemistry lab partner, and the self-proclaimed best 'tit-rater' in the class. Even the guys thought he was a shmuck-especially Bruce, and he was a player back then, let me tell you. But I knew Vanessa would be pissed if Todd was staring at someone all night instead of her, and she'd dump him, and he was such a horny loser he'd ask me out not five minutes later."

"And Bruce would notice too, and hopefully by the end of the night you'd have him," Chris grinned. "Did it work?"

"Halfway." Rachel said, blushing pink. "I'd just psyched myself into going out to Todd's car to make out-girls are petty and fickle, Chris, that's all I have to say in my defense-when the police showed up. Vanessa's neighbor saw me and thought I was a professional…and she called the police. We're talking a private school party here: beer, bongs, sex, you name it, and GCPD Vice comes storming right in."

Chris chuckled. "How'd you get to law school with _that _on your record?"

"It never went on my record," she explained bashfully. "Bruce was definitely watching us because as soon as the cops pulled up he came storming out, grabbed me from the car and we took off running since by then neither of us were sober enough to drive."

"Never pegged you as the partying kind," Chris confessed.

"I wasn't," Rachel Dawes stated matter-of-factly. "But that night I was a basket-case of hormones, five days from turning seventeen, sick of watching the guy I loved snogging every girl in that high school but me, and sick of getting sass for being the only junior still a virgin. It was stupid, it was selfish, it was absolutely whorrish but I was out for blood one way or another and it just took me a couple drinks to get there. Chris, I've never puked so much in my life and I haven't touched the stuff since."

"Wow. Just…wow," Chris conceded, impressed. "That was honest and brutal."

"Brutal doesn't even begin to cover it," she assured him. "Todd was stupid enough he tried to drive away and they chased him-under-aged drinking and a DUI, mind-and suddenly Bruce is dragging me through hedges and over privacy fences and that's when I started puking my guts out. I was dizzy and sick, and every alarm that went off was like a knife sawing in my ears. I don't know how many estate security systems we set off in the Palisades that night, or how many people had a puddle of sick on their lawn the next day but it was more than a couple dozen. By the time the night was over the whole precinct must've been out after us."

"Wait, what year was this?"

"Why?" She asked suspiciously.

"Because I lived in the Palisades, and I _remember _that Halloween." Chris grinned, stroking his dirty red beard. "I might even remember that _party_."

"Wait, you were _there?_" Rachel asked, shocked. "That was a private party-how'd you get in?"

"I wasn't exactly there. I was across the street." He drawled.

"I probably puked in your yard," Rachel continued, but then she caught his meaning and her face turned a splotchy puce. "_Christopher Holden, did _you_ make that phone call-?"_

"Well, you have to understand. A bunch of exclusive, private school pricks all making idiots out of themselves? It was a tempting opportunity-"

"Tell me the truth," she demanded. "_NOW._"

"No," he shut his eyes in blissful remembrance. "But my mom did. Best. Moment. Of my Life."

Rachel groaned and hid her face in her hands. "If I was sixteen again, I'd kill you. And her. And then I'd bring you both back to life and kill you again."

For several long minutes they shared a laugh, and tears, then silence. But he needed his source to keep talking, needed to hear the sound of a friend's voice. "I take it it didn't end well, then."

"End well? It _never ended_, Chris," Dawes groaned. "Alfred paid for my tuition at Bruce's school, and I begged him for nearly two years to let me go back to GCPSC. Everyone in that high school thought I'd wrecked their lives, and so did their parents. Sometimes it was worth it seeing them all in reflector vests picking up trash before and after school, but everyone, and I mean everyone, hated me. And to make it worse, Todd Evans spread all these ridiculous kiss-and-tell rumors about me (that didn't end with just _kissing,_ mind you), and I got harassed for blow jobs between every passing period. It's why I became student body president-I had the principal's ear, and all of those douches needed good letters of recommendation to get into college with that party still on their record."

"I meant for you and Bruce." He said apologetically. "Him noticing you were a girl and all."

The tiniest little self-satisfied, sensuous smirk crept across her lips. "We spent the whole night cowering under somebody's Ferrari, praying to God each passing cop wouldn't spot us. It was pretty cozy under there," she whispered wickedly. "He might not have said anything, but he definitely 'noticed'."

For a moment all her audience could handle was stunned silence. But finally Chris chuckled, and she began to laugh in earnest. "God, I can't believe I just told you that-"

"It was high school. We all did dumbass things and we'll hope to God our kids aren't as stupid-or smart-as we were," Chris comforted.

"What about you?" Rachel teased. "What secret life are you hiding?"

It was Chris' turn to smirk. "A gentleman, Rachel Dawes, doesn't tell."

* * *

><p>She treated him to dinner-more fast food, but at least it was <em>food<em>, and not the kind you had to scrounge through dumpsters for. When he was done with this-if he was ever done with this-he was writing a book on being homeless then donating the money to local food pantries. A year ago the idea would have seemed ridiculous, but his time on the streets had taught him the harsh truth-there were plenty of people who went hungry, even in Gotham City.

Never in his childhood had his parents ever graced a fast food franchise with their presence, yet now he was scarfing down MacDonalds cheeseburgers like manna from heaven. "This is god-damned delicious." He managed to blurt between bites of his fifth burger and a mouthful of greasy, salty, still-hot fries.

Rachel wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Chris, you do know that's disgusting, right?"

"Mmmph," he nodded, then began on the milkshake, eyes pinched shut in ecstasy.

"Should I leave you and the Mcflurry alone for a while, Mr. Holden?" She teased.

"Haha. No, I'm fine thanks. But do you have any idea how long it's been since I've had _ice cream_? Seriously?"

Her smile turned from playful to wistful-no doubt she was wondering the same for Bruce as well. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"All of it. You're homeless, your mom's fled the country, you have the Falconi family after you…I just don't understand why," she nearly pleaded. But the growing journalist saw past that question: what Rachel Dawes really needed to hear was why would Bruce Wayne be willing to give it all up. Because Bruce turning his back and walking away from billions was the only hope she had that he hadn't met the same fate as his parents.

But not anymore. He'd found something, perhaps some hidden truth buried in shadow and rumor, perhaps not; but it was hope, and hope brought her happiness. "Scoot over," Chris said, standing and switching to her side of the table. This was a private conversation, one it wouldn't do well for anyone to overhear. There was safety to be had in public places, yes, and anonymity, but there was always that chance, that slim, tiny chance that the grandma sitting two tables over had her hearing aids up too loud and knew somebody you could use your information for a price. "I followed a new lead," Chris said as she slid down the booth to make room for him. The cloth was still warm from where she'd been sitting, he couldn't help but notice, but he was male, currently single and utterly sex-starved, and if Rachel could talk candidly about Wayne's ill-timed boner he could swallow his pride and admit he wouldn't have fared any better under those conditions himself. "Some hood on my block knows a guy who knows a guy named Mario who specializes in illegal documents. Passports, social security numbers, you name it. This guy's got a reputation as good enough to outsmart the Feds, and as it turns out I'm not the first 'gringo' to come looking for him."

Rachel perked up at any hint of Bruce's name and left her meal uneaten. "He definitely mentioned Bruce?"

Chris shrugged. "Guy wouldn't say. Not for that much _dinero_, at least." He wondered how long they could do this, looking for her lover while pretending they didn't have feelings of their own. Chris wanted to find Bruce, at least he told himself that day after day, but in all honesty what Chris wanted was the truth. The truth was all that mattered, the truth was what he gave up his life and his money and his schooling for to live underground as another man because Christopher Holden was wanted by the mob. And the truth was Chris could now care less if Bruce Wayne was alive or dead, if Bruce had fled Falconi's presence then fled the country. The honest truth was Chris Holden was a little more than just in love with Wayne's old girlfriend, and now stuck with the agonizing paradox of both wanting him back so Rachel would be happy, or wanting him gone.

…Like permanently.

"That's incredible," she gushed excitedly, her dark eyes lighting up with this newest-found glimmer of hope. "I'll have to ask Gordon if he's heard of Mario."

"I don't like it," Chris countered.

"Don't like what?"

"This Gordon guy. What proof do you have he's one of the good guys?"

"Because James Gordon is a perfect gentleman who hates Arnold Flass even more than we do. He's disgusted by what the Police force has become in Gotham, but he has too much pride to just walk away. He's a career cop, Chris, and he's a _good, honest man_," she affirmed. "So it'll take more than your paranoia to change my mind."

"Alright then. We trust him," Chris begrudgingly consented. "What did you find?"

"A new witness. Bruce definitely went into that club."

"How do you know?" She'd already told him she'd driven off before seeing which way Bruce had gone, and Chris was shrewd enough never to question just what it was the two of them were doing down in that part of the Narrows in the first place. He had a feeling he already knew. "Judge Fabian was clearly upset when I pressured him to know if Bruce ever entered Falconi's joint that day-especially after I insinuated that I knew he'd lied to the cops during questioning about it. Gordon was able to tell me that a narcotics CI finally flipped and ratted to the cops in exchange for better prison arrangements that Bruce was actually on the premises."

"And?"

"And even though he was moved to private quarters in a federal penitentiary, he was discovered dead in his cell the next morning before he could give his official testimony," she added drily.

"So not a lot of help, then." Chris sympathized. But his surprise, she grinned.

"But _Fabian_ doesn't know that. He knows the CI got killed for squealing, but what he doesn't know is what got spilt. And if I've…misled him to believe that it's evidence against him, it was completely unintentional." Rachel Dawes would make an excellent attorney, Chris told himself. She was little but fierce, with a clever streak a mile wide and just enough subtlety to pull it off. She rode that line between saucy and just plain bitch with unexpected poise, grace, and all the tenacity of a pit bull. Rachel Dawes didn't fool around-she had a goal, and she got shit done. He just wondered how much she'd done-perhaps even _who_-in the name of getting what she wanted. "I'm a law student Chris," she stated, misreading that look. "I have the greatest respect for the law even if Fabian doesn't. I haven't done-and I refuse to do-anything illegal."

"Not even if it gets Bruce home?" He countered.

Rachel Dawes bit her lips. "No," she finally stated. "Not even if it means that. Carmide Falconi already runs this city with crime. I won't let him run me as well."


	11. Nowhere Safe

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>It wasn't over. God, how could he have been so foolish-?<p>

YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED. It was written in red, but it wasn't paint sprayed or splashed on Abuelita's broken down door, it was blood. Human blood.

"Oh, God." Chris breathed, "Oh my God-"

"Chris, we have to go," Rachel's even, measured voice commanded. "We have to go-"

"That's blood, Rachel. Blood," He panted, feeling sick. "And it's all over, it's, the door's been broken down-" They'd found him, they'd found his shelter, his would-be landlady and they'd killed her. "Abuelita?" Chris called anxiously as Rachel held him back from that damaged door. "Abuelita? Are you home? Can you hear me!"

"Chris, no!" Her arms were tiny, but strong, and for several seconds she held him back. "We have to leave. Don't shout-people are staring. We have to walk away, Chris. You have to walk away from this-"

He broke free. Ran into the darkened house still crazed, still shouting. Red. Drips. Drops. Spatters and smears. And there, there on the wall, about the height of a man's head-

Chris retched, retched like he hadn't since Joe Chill's murder, retched like Rachel Dawes' drunken Halloween story, retched because there was a river, a dark, deadly river of scarlet flowing from plaster to tile that would not be quenched.

"Chris, we have to go," Rachel's voice was small and shaken, but still firm. "We can't stay. There's nothing we can do-"

But Chris was still in shock. "ABUELITA!" he shouted again into the darkness. "Abuelita, can you hear me?"

"Chris, stop-"

"She might be here still. She might be hurt-" he pleaded.

"Chris, listen to me. Listen to me!" She commanded gently. "She's gone. She's dead. No one could survive that amount of blood loss. No one. We have to leave."

She was dead. The grumpy little old woman with the wrinkled face who took him in. She was gone. Dead. Dead because of him. "H-he m-murdered her. F-f-falconi murdered her. Oh my God, oh my God-"

Rachel touched his arm. "I know, Chris. I know."

Abuelita was dead. A _woman_ was dead because of him. He'd been angry before, frightened, saddened yes, but never hopeless. He'd lost everything, lost everything to that murdering Mafioso but this he couldn't stand. In that moment Chris Holden forgot everything he'd learned in a year on the streets, forgot this was no longer his father's or Thomas Wayne's Gotham, forgot that the man who hunted his life owned the souls of the public service. He was frightened, persecuted, forsaken, and he needed someone to turn to. Help, aid, justice, someone or something to make this right. "We have to call the police," he choked, growing more resolute. "This is murder. We have to call them-"

"You can't, Chris, don't you get that?" She said sadly. "That's just what Falconi wants. You call the police, and before you know it you'll be their prime suspect and you'll be in the tombs within 24 hours. You think Falconi runs Gotham? You think this is frightening? The mob owns the prison system. You wouldn't last a day, not even in County, and there he can make anything look like an accident and the press with never hear of it." She shook her head, took once last grim look at the bloodied wall, then turned to go. "She was your friend, Chris. It's your choice. But you call this in and you're signing your death certificate."

He blanched. For nearly a minute he stood still in the dingy, blood-splattered kitchen, whispered a silent, shaky prayer, then followed his only remaining friend outside.

A small crowd had already begun to gather. Point. Cross themselves. "What do we do now?" Chris croaked hoarsely.

Her small hand sought his, perhaps in fear, perhaps in determination. "We get away from here," she said as she began to lead him. "We get as far away from here as possible."

* * *

><p>There was nothing left. No place left he could turn. Falconi's fingers reached deep into Gotham's gutters, and there was no place so dank or dirty the Mafioso would be afraid to grasp. He'd long ago sunk to the curb in defeat, and Dawes slowly sat next to him, keeping a silent vigil.<p>

"It's over, Rachel," Chris choked. "No matter what I do, where I go…he'll find me. He'll kill me."

"Falconi can't be everywhere," Rachel finally countered. "There's one thing you still haven't tried."

"Where can I go?" He asked, not daring to hope.

She sighed and turned away. When she spoke again her voice was strangely resigned. "Out of Gotham."

Instinct. Ire. Indignation. Chris leapt to his feet. "I can't just _leave_, Rachel! I, I, I'm not leaving you behind to deal with this alone!" The words, though loud, fell into silence. That admission of affection was met with hush, and Chris had no choice but to stand there, feeling foolish and reckless as the moments passed emotionlessly.

"Stay with me," she finally stated.

"Er, what?"

"The mob runs all the cheap hotels and they're looking for you on the streets. They'll find you by morning. Stay with me," Rachel repeated, her dark eyes inscrutable. "You'll be safe."


	12. An Uncertain Future

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

**AN: Completely unnecessary but entirely expected fanfiction love-triangle. Rated T for some sexual content.**

* * *

><p>"I like the drive," she explained. "It gives me time in the mornings to think." It was a sheltered neighborhood, but hardly isolated, and who knew how many prying eyes peered out into the darkness, watching them. The locks were all old as well, and the key she pulled from her purse was large and skeletal, with a distinctive Victorian feel.<p>

"I've got a spare bedroom, but there's only one bath." She explained, clunking up the narrow, rickety stairs still in those impossible boots. Chris-for his part-did his best not to look up as he followed her through the dark hall. "I'll let you take first turn."

The bathroom was narrow and cramped, with walls that sloped away with the roof, leaving him feeling claustrophobic in the free-standing tub. It was cast-iron, with four clawed feet propping it up from the ground, and probably as old as the house itself. A modern plumbing fixture had been attached to the antique with a stainless steel pole, and an ugly shower head glared down like a robotic sunflower on its stalk. But ugly or not, cramped and unvented or not, being able to properly shower was wonderful. For the first time in months he felt clean-not just less filthy but actually _clean_-and his skin was pink and raw from scrubbing.

Dawes didn't have an extra tooth-brush but she had a bottle of Listerine, and Chris winced as the alcohol hit his gums. The water draining from the bath had been a dirty, swirling grey, and he didn't even want to _think _how bad his dental hygiene had become. His reddish beard had grown out of control, and though he didn't shave it he was able to trim it down. It was still a disguise, yes, but not unruly, and the same with his hair. Even after a hot shower and a haircut his months on the street had made him nearly unrecognizable. The lean, ruddy young man in the mirror with facial hair and long, wavy curls bore no resemblance to the well-muscled, clean-shaven athlete he'd once knew. It was odd, staring into a reflection that wasn't his reflection, and yet strangely gratifying. This last year he'd grown up considerably, and his life had utterly changed. It was only right, then, that his outward appearance should be so drastically altered…

"I've cleared out the guest room for you," Rachel said, cautiously peering in. "Just keep the lights off. I don't want anyone who might be spying to suddenly wonder who else might be in the house."

"Right," Chris said awkwardly, accepting his freshly laundered clothes with only a (inadequate, he thought) white towel draped around his waist. "Do you, um, mind-?"

Rachel shut the door with quiet dignity. "Just throw your towels in a corner somewhere," she called as he dressed. "I'll wash them in the morning."

* * *

><p>The house was old and stuffy, and full of creaking noises during the night. The sheets were soft, and the mattress enticing, but Chris couldn't manage to sleep. Were those noises just shifting heat, or something more sinister? Was that a creak of the stairs? Could those be Falconi's footsteps? And was he selfishly putting the woman he loved in danger by staying here?<p>

He tossed and turned, wondering and worrying, and his mind kept turning to Rachel. Rachel Dawes, Bruce Wayne's childhood friend and lover, lay less than twenty feet away across the narrow hall…was she as lonely as he was? Desperate for affection, to know someone else cared? Or was she sleeping peacefully, still dreaming of Wayne?

It didn't help that the sheets smelled of lilac and lavender. Then it was her fabric softener, he mused, and not a brand of perfume that he'd begun to acquaint with her presence. He did his best not to notice the smell, not to let his wandering mind rove too far, not to think that he was here in her house, or laying in her bed, or that if he was just brave enough to speak his mind on the matter it might be Rachel herself and not her scent that surrounded him and intoxicated his senses. But those thoughts clung, heavy and thick like the midnight air and he found neither rest nor escape…

The night wore on. The noises waxed and waned. But he must have fallen asleep, he thought, because mixed in those many creakings and groanings he swore he heard the imperceptible patter of bare feet, the rustle of silk, and then the soft, smooth skin of a woman's bare breasts pressed suddenly against his.

* * *

><p>He hadn't imagined it, was his first waking thought. The sheets were thrown back on the opposite side of the bed, and the pillow had been slept on. Her silk nightgown was still tossed carelessly on the floor, and the feel of her hair and the taste of her lips clung to him as though they'd been there only seconds before. It was still dark out, and the stirring of traffic was distant and muted. It couldn't be later than 4 am…<p>

The light in her room was on, and peering around the doorframe he could see her standing in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, drying her dark hair. Her make-up was already done, and her work-clothes were laid out beside the sink. Rachel Dawes was getting up, and getting ready to leave without saying goodbye.

It'd just been sex, then. Just a one-night stand. She'd needed a man and he'd been available…but who she'd really wanted was Wayne. She'd come and gone while it was still dark, no names, no faces, no emotional connections…but it'd been real to him. Still was. And suddenly it didn't matter if Wayne was the one she loved, would go back to…he was the one who was here. They both could die, die before either of them got what they really wanted, and the future was far off and uncertain and all they had-all anyone really had-was the here and now.

He didn't mind being used. Didn't mind being her second choice…didn't mind if she'd leave him in the future just needed to know that she loved _him_, Chris Holden, and that she loved him not for forever but at least for _now._ "Hey," he said.

Rachel wheeled. "Oh, hey," she replied softly. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was. For a while, anyway. And you?"

She shrugged bare shoulders, one pale hand clutching at the towel. "I have to get to work."

"You're running," he stated, leaning against the door frame. "You're either ashamed or you're scared and now you're running. Why."

She glared, defiant. "Don't you tell me how I feel. Don't you dare, Chris Holden, don't you dare pretend to know."

"You don't have to be afraid, Rachel." he continued. "And you have nothing to be ashamed of." Tears pricked in her eyes, but she tried to blink them away. She always had to be so strong, Chris realized. She'd come to the Narrows by herself to see him, pulled him away from danger, opened her home to a fugitive, and stood up to a Mafioso as nothing but a slight, defenseless woman…she'd spent so much time learning how to be strong, just trying to survive, that she'd forgotten what it was like to be weak.

…That sometimes, but only sometimes, it was okay to simply be helpless.

"I love you." Chris said. "Rachel Dawes, I love you. And I know you love Bruce, but I'm here for you, however you need me…it just has to be in the light, not closeted away someplace like you're ashamed of me."

She bit her soft lips and clenched her eyes shut, but those tears began to fall. So he was the first to speak those words to her, to tell her something that Wayne in all his selfishness never had, perhaps never would…

Slowly he stepped closer, gave her time, gave her room to run, to reject him, to regain her composure but she didn't. Gently he put a protective arm around her waist to pull her close, and as Rachel Dawes began to cry in earnest he whispered over and over again _just tell me what you need._

* * *

><p>They made love, and it was real this time. It was him, Chris Holden, who got to kiss and caress her, and it was his name she whispered as she breathed in his ear, not silence, not Wayne's…and it might not have been what either of them wanted, but they each got what they'd <em>needed<em>.

She was protected. Loved. Cherished by someone. And there was someone, someone in this city of millions who knew his name and his story, who knew the truth, and who'd remember him when he was gone, and that was enough.

Enough for Rachel, enough for him…enough for _now._


	13. A Newfound Friend

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>"Where are you going?" He asked groggily. She was fully dressed now, and had her purse in hand. He supposed he must've dosed off, and only woken when she'd stooped to kiss him good-bye.<p>

"To work," she chided. "I'm a legal aid to an ADA presenting prosecution today. I really wasn't lying when I said I had to go in."

"Hmmm." Chris rolled over, suddenly mortified. "Then I feel like an ass."

"You were right, though," she sighed as her lips pressed the back of his head. "Now get some rest."

He woke again, several hours later. Light was streaming in between the curtains, and traffic had picked up considerably. The subway ran not many blocks from here, and he could hear the rush and thrum of the passing cars split by weighted silence. It was probably 9am. Rush hour. He yawned, nestled deeper into the covers and breathed in Rachel's scent, then willed himself back to sleep. Despite the initial horrors it'd been a pleasant night, a pleasant morning…and though the sun was up it promised pleasant dreams.

* * *

><p>The telephone jolted him awake. He let it ring, knowing full well he couldn't pick it up. Anyone watching the house would know Rachel was gone, and even putting it back on the receiver would give away his presence. He waited for the sound to die down, wanted nothing more than to lay his face back in the pillows and get more sleep…but something kept him from resting. Maybe it was the thought that someone might be testing him, calling the house purposefully to smoke him out; or maybe it was because in all of Gotham only Rachel Dawes knew where he was, and the phone had rung now more than 30 times…<p>

Was she hurt? In trouble? Did she need him? Would she worry if he didn't pick up? Or even worse, did she have a warning meant solely for him-?

That worry ate him. Twenty rings later he gritted his teeth in determination and picked up the heavy, antique dial-phone.

"Thank God!" Rachel's panicky voice rang through the century-old speaker. "Where are you?"

"Home." He stated cryptically. Surely she had to know that…

"Which phone?"

"The one upstairs. By your bed."

"Run to the bathroom." Rachel blurted. "You run in there and you lock the door and you don't open it for anyone."

"Rachel, what-"

"Just do it!" She shouted, and there was no doubting the fear in her voice. He sprinted the six steps to the door, and shut it behind him and with trembling fingers clicked the lock. But there was nothing else. Nothing left. Nothing in this tiny, cramped room to use as a weapon, and nowhere else he could run. For the next hour and a half he sat in uneasy silence, sweaty, cramped, naked, growing increasingly restless and afraid.

* * *

><p>Someone was in the house. He could hear them on the stairs-too heavy to be Rachel, and that could only mean one thing: Falconi's thugs. That phone call had been to bait him out, and now they had him trapped-<p>

"You'll scare him," he heard what sounded like Rachel's voice wafting up from the bottom storey. "Just let me go up and talk to him-"

So the hitman had brought a woman with him. Sought to lure him out. Chris was cowering in the bathtub, with nothing but the scissors he'd used to trim his beard and hair as a weapon, but he resolved not to open that door, no matter what he heard, and not to leave the bathtub, either. Who knew if cast-iron was bullet proof, but it was a better shield at least than a wooden door, regardless how heavy.

"Chris, it's me!" That voice piped again, this time loudly enough to be plainly heard. "It's Rachel! It's okay, you're safe."

_Bullshit_, Chris thought, looking down at the scissors in his hand and wondering just how the article explaining his death might read. 'Man found shot to death in townhouse, law student arrested', or 'Man slits wrists in girlfriend's apartment'. He really shouldn't have grabbed the scissors, after all. At least bullet wounds were always suspicious…and Rachel Dawes didn't own a gun.

"Chris, it's me! It's Rachel!" The woman pleaded. "It's safe. I brought Sergeant Gordon-"

"Miss Dawes, I suggest you stand back," a male voice chimed.

"_CHRIS?_"

_How do I know it's really you?_ He considered asking, but it was a dead give away that he was here to anyone who didn't know it yet. Not that they wouldn't figure it out soon anyways. He could hear their hushed voices and footsteps from the other side of the door…

"Son, if you're in there, this is Sergeant James Gordon from the GCPD." The second voice said gently. "I'm sliding my badge under the door for verification." And sure enough, something metallic was wedged under the door, then slid roughly across the tile.

James Gordon, GCPD, it read. Rachel had been convinced that James Gordon was a friend, but how could he tell this was the real Gordon? Or that the real Gordon hadn't been robbed then killed? And how the hell was _he _supposed to know what a real police badge looked like-?

"How do I know you're the real James Gordon?" He finally asked, feeling incredibly foolish as the words came out his mouth.

"Oh, thank God!" Rachel's voice said again. "You're alive!"

There was a slow, solemn chuckle from just beyond the doorframe. "Good boy," Gordon said. "But the truth is son, if I wasn't, you'd be dead already. Now I _can_ break down this door to prove it to you, but it'd be easier for the both of us if you'd just let me in."


	14. An Awkward Encounter

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>Sergeant Gordon didn't mess around. He locked Rachel in the bathroom as well, and as Chris got awkwardly dressed he double-checked and triple-checked the premises for signs of entry or foul play. After what seemed a sweaty, nervous eternity, Gordon rapped on the door again, and they both exited, relieved.<p>

Rachel took them all down to the kitchen, and offered coffee, tea, diet coke, or beer. Gordon asked politely for a cup of hot tea, and Chris guzzled a Killians before Rachel had even put the kettle on. His nerves were shot, and he felt more than a little childish for having holed himself up naked in the bathroom for nothing. Worse, even, that Gordon had to have known as Rachel brought his clothes in with her. Not that he was ashamed of their affair, and not that it was anyone else's business…but still, it wasn't exactly how he'd pictured their first meeting.

"I have to say, Mr. Holden, I'm surprised to see you still alive." Gordon finally stated after a long pull at his tea.

"After seven months of being missing?" Chris asked weakly. He didn't know why, but Gordon made him feel jittery. He had a disapproving, paternal look about him that made Chris feel as awkward and guilty as if the man had walked in on them in bed.

"After the fax Miss Dawes received this morning." Gordon corrected.

"What fax?" Chris gaped.

"This." Rachel said shakily, handing a crumpled paper across the table: I'M NOT FUCKING AROUND. But with that ominous message was a picture, a black and white picture, but just as graphic nonetheless. Chris found he was blushing scarlet, and couldn't bring himself to look into the older man's eyes. At least that explained Gordon…

They were in the house. Whoever it was after him, they'd been in the house. They'd seen, or watched, or somehow had taken pictures of…of…well…

"They were here the whole time." Chris shuddered, glancing up at Rachel. "Even before you left for work."

"Clearly," Gordon grunted in disapproval as Chris re-crumpled the paper. But there was no un-seeing what the man saw…Rachel's face, Chris imagined, must look as horrified as his own…

"Do you know where that fax was sent from?" Gordon continued. "This address. Whoever took that picture sent it from Miss Dawes' study. Now, Mr. Holden, did you hear, or see, anything unusual in the house this morning?"

"No, I, well, I…I never really got out of bed." Chris mumbled, still unable to face Sergeant Gordon.

"But how did they get in?" Rachel shuddered. "I just can't imagine anyone making it up the stairs without us hearing-"

"You were, shall we say, taken unawares." Gordon continued. "I can imagine that both of you were quite preoccupied." At this, Rachel made a dignified retreat to fetch more tea, but Chris had to endure the awkward silence, still staring at the table-top while Gordon ruminated over his humiliation. "The angle of the picture suggests it was taken from the hallway, but I offer a different explanation." Gordon said when Rachel returned. "If you'll allow me to show you-"

They made their way back up the stairs, Gordon gallantly allowing Rachel to go first, then shooting Chris such a glare as though daring him to raise his eyes to her ascending form. Chris gulped, and followed last, feeling miserable and sheepish and determined never to so much as even think of looking at Rachel Dawes ample buttocks or legs ever, ever again.

* * *

><p>"This bedroom window is the only that has been tampered with," Gordon explained. "Your stalker, for lack of a better term, could have easily taken the picture from outside the house, then waited for Miss Dawes to leave before entering. This would, I believe, be the simplest explanation."<p>

"But how? Why? Wouldn't it be easier to come in through the first storey?"

"Yes. But as Miss Dawes pointed out, the stairs are quite unpredictable and your stalker would have no way of knowing your preoccupation before entering."

"Sex, Gordon." Rachel blurted, blushing red. "Let's just call it sex and get it over with."

"Yes," Gordon said, mortified in turn. "Very well then. Yes. Ahem."

Chris grinned. "You were saying?"

"Yes. Well. Hmm. It would be difficult, but by no means impossible, for someone to reach the second storey from the ground. If you look here, here at the window ledge, you can see scraping suggestive of the tool used to enter."

"You'd have to be a fucking gymnist," Chris whistled, poking his head out the window to stare at the earth, nearly fifteen feet below. "There's no way."

"And yet neither the outside doors nor first floor windows have been tampered with, Mr. Holden. And might I ask you to keep your adjectives to situations where they are properly applied," he added, with an arch in one brow. "I also believe my interpretation best explains _this_."

Rachel and Chris both let out a gasp. Painted across the inside of the guest bedroom door, hiding against the wall, were the blood red words I FOUND YOU.

"Miss Dawes explained your situation," Gordon continued in the kitchen. "And an anonymous tipper reported to the GCPD this morning about a potential homicide in the Hermandad sector. Ordinarily, I'd feel compelled to arrest you as many on the scene described the suspect in detail. However the condition of the blood as congealed when you arrived and Miss Dawes' vouching for you whereabouts during the necessary time preceeding the discovery precludes you from the murder. Her word is good enough for me, and I am as convinced of your innocence as soundly as though you'd been declared so in a court of law."

"So it was a homicide," Chris said lowly. "She really did die."

"Yes, and no." Gordon said kindly. "While your landlady is an illegal immigrant and we have no DNA with which to match, the blood discovered was undoubtedly male."

"Your lab can tell that quickly?" Rachel asked in surprise.

"Gender and type can be determined on scene if one wishes*****." The man continued. "And given the circumstances I felt it necessary to expedite the process. Whoever was killed in that apartment was decidedly NOT the woman you were renting from."

"Wait, it _wasn't _Abuelita?"

"Hardly." Gordon assured him. "Also, the bloodstains discovered matched what we believe to have been the victim's head, and we can estimate height to be at least five foot eleven, possibly six feet. Was there anyone else in that residence that might match that description?"

"What? Oh, no." Chris sighed in relief. "No, it was just me and Abuelita."

"Any visitors, family, or someone who could have had the misfortune of being there at the same time as your stalker?"

"No one I know of." He shrugged.

"I see." The older man continued to sip his tea. "Then this complicates things."

Chris cocked his head. "Complicates them _how_?"

Gordon set his teacup down in resignation. "It complicates things, Mr. Holden, because I believe it means not one, but _two_ men have been following you, and now one of them is dead."


	15. An Unwelcome Guest

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p><em>Don't go home. Run. Get Out. They are Coming. You Should have listened. I'm not fucking around. <em>And now finally, _I found you_.

"The consistency of the messages is quite clear." Gordon finally said, after hearing all of the evidence. "And their continued presence after the death that occurred in your old apartment makes it clear to me that the man leaving them is the one who prevailed."

"Come again?" Chris asked, dumbfounded.

"Don't be stupid, Chris." Rachel said. "Whoever began leaving you this messages is still the one leaving them. That means whoever they are, they killed either an accomplice or a rival then disposed of the body."

" '_You should have listened_.'" Gordon repeated softly. "On second glance, it's escalatory. Blame-shifting, even. That death-whoever died in that apartment-is either a warning of further violence to come, or an attempt to deflect the guilt on you. 'You should have listened', he whispered again. " Possibly both. But listened to what? Or who?"

"To the past warnings, would be my guess." Rachel spoke up. "Perhaps if Chris had heeded them, the second stalker wouldn't have found him, and wouldn't have had to be killed."

"It was escalatory, then." The cop continued to muse. "Whoever was in that apartment was there to kill you, Mr. Holden, and your unknown stalker-or rather, savior-prevented it."

"By killing a man." Chris repeated dully.

"By killing the man sent to kill you." Gordon corrected.

But Chris couldn't take it anymore. The journalist in him demanded the truth, and now both Rachel and Gordon were acting like they knew with absolute certitude what had happened last night. "Now listen here, Gordon. This speculation is fine and all but we really don't have solid proof of any of it!"

"You're still alive, Chris." Rachel reminded him softly. "We _both_ are. What further proof do you need?"

* * *

><p>Before he left Gordon checked the premises again, one last time, just to be sure. "I'd offer to stay but I have a wife at home who worries," he apologized. "And I'd offer to call in police protection for you-" here he looked mostly at Rachel, "but given the current situation I think you'd be much better protected without them. Not to mention this young man here seems to have a guardian angel of sorts. I'd stick close to him, if I were you."<p>

"Yes, sir." Rachel said. "And thank you."

"No need," Gordon replied. "Serving and protecting is down in my job description, after all. Not that you'd know it, not in this city…and you, young man," he addressed Chris sternly. "A word." Rachel seemed quite taken aback being dismissed in her own house, but obediently went back upstairs, sending curious looks over her shoulders.

"I suppose you know what this is about," Gordon said firmly.

"I suppose so, sir." Chris gulped. "Yes."

"Now, Miss Dawes is a very fine young woman, very independent and headstrong. You are both consenting adults. However, as Miss Dawes does not have a living parent to put the fear of God in you concerning her, I find that duty falls to me. You, while you are here, will treat her with the respect and dignity that such a young lady deserves." Gordon finished, one eyebrow raised severely. "Do I make myself clear?"

Chris hadn't felt so small, so humiliated, so _lectured_ since picking up his first prom date. Which, he supposed, had been the older man's intent all along. "Y-yes, sir."

"Good." Gordon nodded. "Because I also find it my duty to inform you that should you not, regardless of whether you have a unknown protector willing to kill in your name and what the law might say on the matter, I _will_ track you down and I _will_ punish you." He threatened, eyebrows still bristling. "Goodnight, Mr. Holden." Then with a rather ostentatiously finger-crushing handshake, Sergeant Gordon took his leave.

"What's wrong?" Rachel asked when he retreated upstairs. At least today hadn't been a complete debacle-she was waiting for him, half-dressed and snuggled under the covers; but he did notice that the door to the opposite bedroom had been closed, and all the blinds had been tied in place.

"N-nothing," he said after a hesitant and nervous kiss, in which Gordon's parting words seemed to echo loudly. "I just really, really, have to pee."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: While blood-typing is done using the red blood cells, mature red blood cells lack DNA and cannot be used for DNA matches or gender identification. However, white blood cells, though less in number, retain their DNA and can be visually checked for gender under a standard microscope by the presence (or absence) of Barr bodies, which are the discarded extra X chromosomes found in females.<strong>


	16. An Assassin's Ambush

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>In just three short days, Chris' life had gone from Hell to Paradise. Rachel Dawes was a beautiful, intelligent, confident woman, and she was absolutely voracious in bed. Great-and quite imaginative-sex was one thing, but it was the little things she did and was that made all the difference. She read the paper every morning, had the news going in the background even while she showered. She appreciated the difference between the truth and story-telling, between real journalism, scare-tactics and entertainment, and aside from Mike Engel had to be the most self-educated, well-informed person he'd ever met. She was critical, she was witty, she was playful, she was sexy…and she could <em>cook<em>.

And cook she did. Not three days into their haphazard relationship she made him _breakfast_, of all things. A real, home-cooked breakfast with sausage, eggs, even gravy and biscuits, and that, more than anything else, was what made Chris confident that not only was he being screwed, he was being _pampered. _A woman didn't put that kind of energy or effort into something or someone unless she genuinely cared. Perhaps Bruce Wayne was still in the picture, perhaps not…but for now—right _now_—Chris Holden was convinced that Rachel Dawes loved him, and that was enough.

"A little cholesterol won't kill you, you know," he grinned as she finished her yogurt with fruit and granola.

"And that's not a 'little' cholesterol, Chris," she retorted. "My taste buds might hate me but my arteries will love me, and that's what matters."

"What now?" He asked.

"Christopher Holden, if you even think there's going to be a second course-" she bristled playfully.

"No, I mean, what now for us?" he said with chagrin. "I mean, typically in situations like this a guy's supposed to go get a decent paying, steady job to put food on the table-"

"Chris, if you haven't noticed, we're not really living together." Rachel purred, coming closer. "You're simply living with _me_."

"Mmm." Chris kissed her suggestively. "And how could I ever hope to repay you?"

She thwacked him with a rose-colored dish towel with an impish grin. "You can start here, work you way up. I'll be home by five, and the house had better be clean and I expect dinner on the table."

* * *

><p>STOP SCREWING AROUND<p>

He'd come upstairs from the onerous task of deep-cleaning the kitchen only to find the words spray-painted on Rachel's sheets. Whoever it was had been in the house, and been in the house not less than an hour ago.

The paint was still wet. For all he knew, they were still here.

* * *

><p>The days went by. He began to recognize the sounds of the old house, could tell the creakings of the floorboards from those of the stairs, began accustomed to the steady drip, drip, drip of the bathroom faucet, and memorized the way the shadows fell, painted and hushed across the walls. The house was full of old things-grandfather clocks, antique stairwells, rotary phones and ancient, well worn woodwork. The neighborhood was a part of the historic district, Rachel had explained, and as a part of Historic Gotham her lease stipulated that everything should remain how it was. It was fascinating, yet freakish. The house was a god-send, and yet a tomb. He was safe here, yes; but also locked in here, away from the light, away from freedom, and his only contact with the outside world was a law-student who came and went at all hours of the day and night. He kept his face away from the windows, kept the blinds shut and the curtains drawn, and having found and read a first edition of <em>To Kill a Mockingbird<em>, he imagined this was how Boo Radley must've felt for all those long years…

There were books, too. Lots of books. When he wasn't cooking or sleeping or playing house with Rachel the books were his constant companions. They were all old, all leather-bound, and all had that musty, sharp scent of a well-weathered library, and the earliest publishing date he found was from the 1890's. He lost track of days and time as sunless he became schedule-less, and Rachel's ever-varied hours only added to the mounting loss. But today Chris found himself upstairs in the attic, carefully breaking open a locked trunk that Rachel was sure contained several tomes from the early 19th century when he heard the noise.

There was a loud CRACK! that sounded like gunfire, and sent him sprawling to the ground hands covering his ears and head. He waited for what seemed like hours before emerging from the attic, crowbar in hand, ready to attack whatever intruder had entered. If he'd lived alone he would've stayed put, but there was never any telling when Rachel might appear, unawares…

But the sound hadn't been a gunshot, just a broken plate glass window, and the deafening echo off the interior's many wooden surfaces must've drowned out the gentle tinkling of shards falling to the floor. A single paving stone, painted a sickening red, was the sole culprit. It was daylight, Chris noted through the gaping curtains, and that noise had been loud enough for many of the neighbors to hear as well.

His stalker-or savior, as Gordon had put it-was back, and wasn't afraid to harass him in broad daylight now, resorting to desperate measures to catch his attention. The man was either growing extremely angry, Chris realized as he swept up the mess, or afraid.

Rachel hadn't come home, and even more disturbing she hadn't called. Chris paced the house restlessly, waiting for word from Gordon. So far they'd discovered that she'd clocked out of work, and the Metro Mainframe showed she'd swiped and boarded the subway. But she hadn't gotten off at her regular stop.

In fact, she hadn't gotten off at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Gotham Public Tranport Terminal<strong>

**Several hours earlier…**

Chris should've listened, Rachel Dawes thought, followed fleetingly by the hope that Falconi's man killed her outright and didn't rape her first. Working in the DA's office she'd aided prosecution, and she'd seen horrific pictures of female bodies and genitals mutilated by burns, knives, and even gunfire. _Do it quickly_, she found herself praying, _God, let me die like Martha Wayne…_

When the subway had rattled to a stop, she'd exited the car only to find the cold metal of a gun muzzle suddenly pressed into her back. "Move," a deep voice growled.

And she'd complied. She was a coward after all, she thought with disgust. All her life she'd fought against her circumstances, and now here at the end she went as quiet as a lamb to the slaughter. They threaded slowly through the crowd, and she sent panicked glances to passersby in desperation and despair. But this was Gotham City, and not a one of the hundreds in that crowded terminal made eye contact.

Her stumbling feet came at last to the grimy wall: a derelict tunnel service door. "Open it," that menacing voice growled. She shouldn't comply, there were still people in the terminal. Would her attacker risk gunfire with so many witnesses? She could scream, run, make a break for it, try to lose him in the crowd…

…she hadn't been there when Chill went down, but she'd heard the story. Falconi had ordered Joe Chill hit in broad daylight, on the Courthouse stairs, before a live television audience. Her hitman wouldn't care how many people he took down with her, she realized, so her hands found that dirt and urine streaked door of their own accord and pushed. Her last act was to spare the people she'd so long protected, and no one would ever know. The access door opened on rusted, begrudging hinges, then the light, the chatter and patter of footsteps slowly faded, and was lost as the metal door clanged shut behind her. She was all alone now, in the dank and cold of a subway tunnel.

Her killer was pitiless. "Take off your clothes."

For the first time, her resolution nearly failed her. But she suppressed that sob, if not the shaking, and so button by button, layer by layer, she stripped naked and helpless in the dark. It was cold, her nipples hardened instantly, and she could feel gooseflesh raising on her thighs and arms. Compliance was instinct, she realized as she shivered, some bizarre, useless, subconscious hope that somehow obedience would allow her to be spared…

But she knew she wouldn't be.

He was directly in front of her now, that gun placed directly between her breasts, unrelenting against her sternum. She was blind in the blackness, and all her other senses were screaming. In the air there was the echoing thrum of traffic and electricity, the distant sound of the shearing brakes of another line. Concrete was sharp under her feet, and she could distinguish individual cracks and chips with the soles of her feet. Every hair on her body was raised, and each moved individually in the chilled air. She had never felt so alive, her body never before so aware of itself or its surroundings, the expansion of her ribs, the beating of her heart! And how horrible, how tragic, that she should only feel truly alive now, here at the end!

But it wasn't the end. Not yet. She could hear him, lusty and panting, and then the sound-what a horrible sound!-of his zipper coming undone. She shuddered.

"On your knees." Her rapist growled.

There was no one left to protect. She would die here, all alone, here in this forsaken pit where the sunlight never reached. She would die, yes, but she wouldn't be humiliated. She squared her shoulders against the pressure of the barrel, cold pangs shooting through her bones. "No," she whispered.

Then Rachel Dawes kicked, kicked as hard as she could, her bare toes stubbing and breaking against the man's exposed groin as an inhuman screech of pain filled the subway, echoing painfully from every wall. Then gunshots deafened her, and she began to run. Sparks flew off the walls behind her, and in a few short, sprinting paces her feet stumbled across the beams of the tracks and she fell, hands outstretched, head striking metal and concrete and she knew no more.


	17. The Writing on the Wall

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC,** **set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>Sergeant Gordon was in a panic. He had the Metro Security helping him with limited equipment and manpower, but it would be a mistake to have asked for aid from the GCPD. If Falconi had ordered her hit, any corrupt officer finding her hurt or half-dead would make sure he finished the job. They started at the final station, searching the cars, then determined she'd never made it to the final hub. And that meant Rachel Dawes had disappeared off public transit somewhere between the main hub and her boarding station, some twenty-three stops distant. All in all, it was fifteen miles of tracks to close and cover, without counting the access tunnels and utility boards they had to examine.<p>

Their search was arduous, and his feet had long ago turned heavy, dull, then numb, but the thought of that brave young woman lying senseless somewhere broken and bleeding kept James Gordon's mind and body in a furious concentration that no amount of physical pain or exhaustion could quell. He wasn't much of a praying man, but pray he did. He prayed Rachel Dawes would be found alive.

…he also prayed her executioners had been merciful. Chill's death had been quick, but Joe Chill had been a _man_. Several years in SVU as a bright-eyed Academy graduate had taught him even in a feminist, modern society, misogyny was still heartbreakingly widespread; and Carmide 'the Roman' Falconi wasn't reknown for his mercy.

* * *

><p>She tried to scream, to wiggle, to move, but her bonds held her fast. She'd woken up between the rails of the subway, and in panic she'd lain perfectly still lest she touch the electric cable and die. For hours she'd cried until her tears were exhausted, and the back of her head, hips and heels were chaffing against the cold cement. She stared up into blackness, screaming silently for Chris, then Gordon, Alfred and finally Bruce. But none of her protectors came, and she lay shivering and resigned.<p>

The shaking of the earth was first, tiny pebbles and dust falling gently down from the ceiling somewhere above. Next came the light, eerie, and faint in the distance. She redoubled her struggle against the tape that held her fast, bound her lips to toes, held her rigid and fast. Her face was unbearably hot with sweat and tears and hyperventilation. The tracks were vibrating now, the harsh, metallic chugging sound of the engine pumping closer and closer. She'd be torn up, ripped to shreds, reduced to nothing but a long, bloody streak, and even her very bones would be crushed-

But the subway car rattled on, ground shrieking metal on both sides of her, thundered over her not inches from her face, deafened her, rattling her very bones. She wet herself in terror, clenched her eyes, clenched every muscle, and at one point she felt the ground falling away as the slipstream threatened to tear her from between the tracks. The cars seemed to clatter on for forever, or perhaps this pit of darkness and fear was Hell itself, but finally, finally, the last one passed overhead, and the echoes of the engine died in the distance, and the very earth itself seemed to grow still.

Rachel Dawes opened her eyes to darkness and cold, immobile in the blackness, with only the pounding in her panicked heart to assure her she was still alive. She cried herself to sleep.

Twelve more trains would pass overhead before the entire Metro system would be shut down, and 17 grueling hours passed before she was found unconscious, dehydrated, and hypothermic between the tracks. Sergeant James Gordon caught one glance of her seemingly mummified form being loaded into the ambulance before tears pricked in his eyes.

He had to throw up. He had to call Christopher Holden.

* * *

><p>The Metro Security officers who'd found Rachel had called EMS and immediately carried her from the scene. They'd driven the tracks in a specialized pick-up with rail capability, and stopped when the headlamps had fallen on her pathetic form. After checking her vitals they'd placed her gently in the bed, one cradling her head in his lap and the other speeding beyond the limits of legality and safety to bring her to the next station and waiting emergency crew. The driver was so focused, so intent, so horrified by the sight of a young woman, naked, bound head to foot in duct tape that in he missed a sight equally as terrible.<p>

As the hi-rail passed, it glimmered in the headlights for only seconds. On the wall of the tunnel, at the height of a man's head, was a splash of crimson that poured in rivers down to the tracks and lapped across them. On the next half mile of track, shriveled and smoking on the third rail, were the twisted, broken, charred and scattered remains of Rachel Dawes' would-be attacker.

…it wasn't until later, much, much later when Coroner Nora Fields and her team of Forensic detectives investigated that the writing on the wall was also found: RUN. Human blood. Hypothesized to be the attacker-turned-victim's. COD—if she had to guess and given the staining of the wall—was death by unintentional self-inflected cerebral GSW via ricochet. _Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin_, the stout woman thought judiciously, snapping photographs with her digital camera.

* * *

><p>Over the next six hours, Jim Gordon kept him constantly updated. Chris had sobbed in relief to hear she was alive, and a cold fury had overtaken him when Gordon described the manner in which she'd been found. The cop had shown up, quite unexpectedly, and apologized to have to pry into their personal lives. When was the last time they'd had sex. Had they used protection, and would he be willing to submit a DNA swab.<p>

It was a polite way of saying she'd been raped without uttering that word, he knew. Chris thought he'd break if he heard it so matter-of-factly in Gordon's mild tones. He took a swab of the inside of Chris' cheek, before saying a hasty goodbye. "I'll keep you posted," were his last words. He gently placed his own cellular phone onto the kitchen table, then Chris was alone again.

That she'd been raped as well as left for dead was the forethought in everyone's mind. The lack of clothing screamed sexual assault, but once the tape had been removed and a kit run there'd been no evidences of trauma or fluids either oral, rectal, or vaginal.

Gordon called and relayed the news, and even over the phone there was a palpable relief in the youg man's anxiety. "We're going back to investigate the scene further," Gordon explained wearily. "But I'm not hopeful as to how much evidence will remain." The tunnel hadn't been one of those shut down for their original search, and upwards of a dozen trains had passed through since the time Chris had reported Rachel missing.

"Why would someone do this?" the young man groaned. "Were they just trying to frighten her to death?"

"I don't know," Gordon answered after a heavy pause. "I just…I just don't know."But he would find the men responsible, Sergeant James Gordon thought hanging up the phone to crawl exhaustedly into bed with his sleeping wife. And, he promised Barbara, Rachel Dawes, and the countless hundreds of victims he'd encountered over his many long years of service, he would bring them to _justice._

* * *

><p><strong> ...Thoughts? Anyone? Bueller?<strong>


	18. The Homecoming

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>Gordon kept him updated from the hospital via his own personal cell phone. He missed the sound of Rachel's voice, wished she could call instead, but she relayed to Gordon she was terrified someone would be checking her phone record. It wouldn't do for her to call the house, and she couldn't call Gordon's number, either. So far the two of them had left no paper trails from their numerous meetings, no email, no phone calls, everything was handled face to face. And for Rachel's—and Gordon's family's sake—it had to stay that way.<p>

She was awake, the cop's mild voice relayed, she was incredibly dehydrated, she was stable, she'd be kept for a day or two for observation. It would take Nora's team considerably longer to sort out exactly what happened in that hellish tunnel. And in the interim, Christopher Holden destroyed the kitchen table with scrawlings and musings over this newest, confounding Rachel's attacker had been the one to bind her, he would have raped her first. But if Rachel's attacker had been killed by a ricochet, or the third rail after Rachel defended herself, who had been the one to bind her to the tracks? And why? If Falconi was merely trying to scare her off the scent of Bruce's disappearance, why send one thug to kill her, another to frighten-? And if not Falconi, then _who_-?

"Damn it!" He shouted to no one in particular. If Falconi wanted him dead, why not just kill him outright? Who was leaving all these messages, why, and if they were trying to protect him why hadn't they protected Rachel in that subway tunnel-?

…but they weren't only trying to protect him. They were also trying to _scare_ him. There was a connection, a vital piece of the puzzle that he was missing, and it infuriated him because all the evidence of a year's passing was sitting in front of him and he still was missing something. Something simple. Something small. Something so obvious it could hide in plain sight…_If you knew someone was going to kill Chill_, he remembered asking so long ago, _why didn't you try and stop them?_ It seemed so important, but his head hurt, his eyes ached, but it just didn't make _sense…_

He fell into a fitful sleep over a list of crossed and re-crossed names: Carmide Falconi, Homeless John Doe, Mario the forger, Alfred Pennyworth, WE, and Rachel Dawes. But even Chris forgot about a woman, the Woman, who didn't prevent an assassination but still stopped a young man from killing in cold blood, the Woman who had gotten inadvertently tangled up in this nightmare just the same as he was.

* * *

><p>Sergeant Gordon brought her home, 72 hours after Chris had first reported her missing. Rachel Katherine Dawes was pale and shaky, but still headstrong. She insisted on staying in the house, and Gordon arranged for a protective detail in the neighborhood. "Good cops," he said gruffly. "Ex-cops, to be exact." Apparently the old-timers missed the action and often volunteered for routine protective details. Sharp, albeit salty veterans, they'd done private security and security training for the last ten years of their collective retirement.<p>

"Thank you, Jim." Rachel kissed the grumpy man on the cheek.

"I'm glad you're okay," Chris said shyly, giving her a tight squeeze.

She smiled wearily. "Me too."

Gordon asked for another word as Rachel sipped hot tea, still wrapped in Gordon's jacket. "Sergeant, thank you," Chris said sincerely as they whispered in the shadowed entry-way. "Thank you for finding her."

"Don't thank me, young man." The cop said tiredly, producing Nora's photographs. "Thank your Guardian Angel."

RUN. His stomach churned. "I don't understand."

"Whoever is doing this is a dangerous friend, Mr. Holden." Gordon warned. "A savior of sorts, but also a sociopath. If you're hiding anything, protecting anyone, now is the time to come clean. You do not want this person as your ally."

A person willing to kill to save his life…yet willing to leave Rachel Dawes embalmed alive in an active subway tunnel for 17 hours, alone in the dark to wet herself with each passing train. Sociopath was putting it _mildly..b_ut he was no better. He'd befriended her, fucked her, even, and he'd known the dangers all along. He was no better than this menacing shadow.

"She's a grown woman, and capable of making her own choices," Jim Gordon repeated, catching the look in his eye. "I've told her this is not a woman's game, and she's smart enough to understand the implications. If you and I want to risk our lives for the sake of a complete stranger's disappearance, that's one thing. It's my job. And yours too, I suppose, if you ever finish your schooling. But Miss Dawes is a strong-willed woman, as strong as they come, stubborn…and she's doing this for a friend." He reminded gently. "It's neither your place nor mine to talk her out of it."

"But I'm putting her in danger. Just by being here," he stammered. "I should leave."

"Stay or leave, it's your choice," Jim shrugged. "But Miss Dawes was in danger long before you entered the picture, Mr. Holden, and she will be long after were you to leave," he concluded. "Now I won't pretend to know much about women, Mr. Holden, but I will say this: the last thing that young lady needs right now is to be taken advantage of or left alone. Do you understand?"

Grumpy, disapproving, mild-mannered prude police Sergeant Jim Gordon had essentially told him to make love to her but for God's sake take it slowly. Even in the darkness, Chris blushed. "Yessir."

"And that was good work," Gordon farwelled him gruffly. "On Mario." Chris stayed by the door, dumb-founded, heavy hearted, but still surprisingly saddened to watch both the man and the dingy police cruiser pull away in the darkness. He felt foolish, in retrospect, to remember he'd ever once doubted him. _A good, honest man_, Rachel Dawes had called him…

He couldn't agree more.

* * *

><p>"Is he gone?" Rachel choked when he entered the kitchen.<p>

He sat awkwardly. "His men are outside somewhere. And he'll call in the morning."

"Finally," she whispered, then her small hands found his shoulders and shoved him roughly to the floor. It wasn't what he (or Gordon) had expected, it wasn't comfortable or gentle and it certainly wasn't love but Rachel Dawes needed to feel like she had some control of her life right now, that she wasn't a helpless pawn in Falconi's chess game, and it wasn't more than a week ago he'd whispered _just tell me what you need_. He let her nails prick his shoulders, let her teeth rip his ears, let her pant and pulse against him until he was chafing and sore. He should feel cheated that she wouldn't have cared who she fucked right now, but staring up at her he was grateful—indebted, even—that she'd chosen him.

It wasn't until much later when she'd showered and changed that the crying started. And no matter how tightly he held her, how gently he kissed her, that incessant sobbing just wouldn't stop. Laying beside the woman he loved he realized just how helpless she'd felt those long, dark hours alone both in the subway tunnel and in the aftermath of her lover's disappearance. Carmide Falconi and his hitmen would have to answer for Bruce Wayne, he'd decided long ago, but this new, silent stalker would answer to him for Rachel's suffering.


	19. Silence in the Library

**When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.**

* * *

><p>Rachel Dawes went back to school and work, grim-faced and pale. Falconi's meddling couldn't keep her from her job, no; but it would be a long, long time before she would take the train into town again. In fact, it would take Bruce's re-appearance to make her feel fully safe, but that day was nearly six years in the future still, and for now she filled her gas tank with watchful eyes, a bottle of pepper spray and a taser—gifts from Gordon—clutched tightly in her faux-leather purse.<p>

The case she was working on now was People vs. Falconi, a tax evasion scandal that was getting nowhere fast both in the news or courtroom alike. The prosecution knew it was a dead-end case, knew the risk to their families was greater than the punishment Carmide Falconi would endure in his possible 6 month sentence, and they left it well enough alone. They'd left it so alone, in fact, that it had been 3 years since the bench warrant for Falconi's testimony before anyone had even bothered to bring him in for contempt of court. And now even Joe Chill was dead, and these meager charges against the Roman for tax evasion were the only justice the citizens of Gotham—and the Wayne family—were likely to see.

And nothing, not even her personal safety, could stand in the way of bringing that corrupt Mafioso to justice.

* * *

><p><strong>Gotham University Law Library<strong>

She'd left the towers for only a minute to change a tampon. The period was a pain, but it meant she wasn't pregnant, and after that first night with Chris without protection of any sort she'd been relieved when the blood and cramping had finally come. Chris would be worried sick at her late hours, and she knew a small pang of guilt for him, but she was close—so close!—to finding a precedent allowing them to dig deeper into Falconi's financial history. It wasn't murder, it wasn't manslaughter, it wasn't menacing, gambling, or prostitution, but it was something, and when it came to Carmide Falconi behind bars, Rachel Dawes was willing to settle for charges that were second best.

Her feet ticked the tiled floors, and she rubbed her eyes tiredly on the return to the stacks. She was nearly to her pile when she saw the flailing shadows. Her hands flew to her mace, ready to defend herself when she heard shouts. Scuffling. The thunderous roar of an overturning bookcase and an ominous, final _BOOM! _like a gunshot. Her heart flew to her mouth, and against every instinct she rounded the final corner—

Blood. Bright red, shocking blood in spatters, running in rivers down to the tile below. And a head, a head, a man's head, nailed through the eyesocket to that up-ended shelf.

She screamed.

* * *

><p>When Jim Gordon finally found her she was a wreck. She'd bolted herself in the women's restroom—<em>good girl,<em> he thought gruffly—protected by several feet of marble on every side and a solid oaken door, several inches thick, a century old and so warped on its hinges not even a Gotham Knights linebacker could have budged it. She'd also, to responding Officer Eugene Bradley's chagrin, managed to taze him through the doorknob when he hadn't obeyed her instructions. "She said she wouldn't open it for anyone but you," he relayed, abashed. "And I think she's serious."

He'd rapped lightly. "It's Jim," he whispered. Then Rachel Dawes tumbled wordlessly into his arms.

"I saw it, Gordon." Rachel insisted, eyes dry at the scene of the crime. "I saw the body, right here."

But even in light of the evidences, Eugene Bradley didn't seem convinced. "It was dark, ma'am. And there's lots of shadows, creaky noises-"

"So you're saying I made it up," the young woman snapped sourly.

"Not at all," Bradley countered, "but it's quite possible you saw something else-"

Gordon laid a hand on the rookie's arm. "With all respects, I know this young woman. She saw what she saw."

"But why'd they take the body?" Rachel asked Gordon for the hundredth time. It was just like that night at Abuelita's house all over again. "Of all the things to do when escaping a crime scene, it makes the _least _sense. The most incriminating."

"Only if you're found with the evidence," Bradley commented, kneeling next to the drying blood pool and giving the stains a long whiff. "Ammonia." He told Gordon knowingly. "Begging your pardon, Miss Dawes, it actually makes the _most_ sense. Whoever you're dealing with, they know about forensics, and they took as much evidence as they could with them. This building's old, with lots of windows, lots of shadows, lots of blindspots even with cc tv. My guess is you'll find the body burned, at the bottom of the river, or never." Gordon only nodded. The rookie officer was right.

* * *

><p>Jim Gordon didn't drive her home, but he did offer the next best thing. "I know your stance on guns, Miss Dawes," he began kindly.<p>

"I told you, Gordon, I'm a _pacifist_," the slight woman insisted. "Guns killed Thomas and Martha Wayne. My best friend's parents—they were like an aunt and uncle to me. They killed Joe Chill and they might have killed Bruce as well. I won't dishonor their memory by carrying one."

He took her hands. "But you're not. You're not the idealist you think you are. You struck back at that man in the subway tunnel, Rachel. You struck back in self-defense." Her eyes lowered, frightened, ashamed, or wary he couldn't tell. "I'm not giving it to you as a _weapon_, Rachel Dawes. It's for self-defense, the same as that tazer or pepper-spray. Non-violence only works so long as your aggressors have humanity. It's no use against those who want you dead."

"Would you do it, Gordon?" She whispered. "Would you kill a man to save your life?"

"No." He replied without hesitation. "But to save my wife? My fellow officers? The people of my city? I've sworn to love and cherish her. To serve and protect the rest. There's a difference between starting a firefight and ending one, Rachel Dawes, and I can sleep with that."

"There's the problem, Mr. Gordon," Rachel Dawes said emotionlessly, her young faced haggard and etched with aging lines. "I haven't. Slept, I mean."

He pressed the Colt .45 into her palm. "Please, Rachel. Please take it. My wife has one," he explained, "and if you were my grown daughter I'd want you to have one as well."

"No." She pushed it gently back to him. "Because if I took it I'd be tempted to use it, and I don't want to do something I'd regret." It wasn't convention, but the older man leaned forward and kissed her cheek the way a father—or an uncle—might have done, and in the dim light of the library's shadows Rachel Dawes would have sworn it was Thomas Wayne's weary face smiling sadly down on her.

* * *

><p>That night while Barbara slept, Jim Gordon performed a search through the VICAP database in the tri-state area. In the last 3 years, over 17 cases had been reported matching the injuries Rachel had described. Single entry trajectory through the sphenoid and occipital bones. Common industrial stainless steel alloy, if any, trace of particulates in the bones. All found decomposing in dumpsters, half-eaten in sewers, doused in kerosene or salvaged from the bottom of the muddy river. Even with Nora Fields' expertise many had yet to be identified. Gang Violence Taskforce put it off to drugs and territory wars, and washed their hands of the mess.<p>

But James Gordon—not unlike Rachel Dawes—was determined to find the truth. And the more he read, the more he was convinced that Gotham City had an undetected serial killer hidden in her shadows.


End file.
